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POEMS,  STORIES,  AND  ESSAYS, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 
WHITTIER,   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL,    WILLIAM    CULLEN  BRYANT,    RICHARD 
HENRY  STODDARD,  VICTOR  HUGO,  BERTHOLD  AUERBACH,  WILKIE  COLLINS, 
HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD,  JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE,  WIL 
LIAM  ROUNSEVILLE  ALGER,  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD,  GAIL  HAMILTON, 
NORA   PERRY,   "  H.   H.,"  LOUISE    CHANDLER   MOULTON,   ED 
WARD  EGGLESTON,  PAUL  HAYNE,  GEORGE  CARY  EGGLES- 
TON,  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE,  WILL  M.  CARLETON, 
JULIA  C.    R.   DORR,    JAMES   PARTON,   AMANDA 
M.    DOUGLAS,   JOHN    HABBERTON,    GEORGE 
B.    LORING,    ABBY    LANGDON    ALGER, 
JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY,    GEORGE 
PARSONS   LATHROP,  JAMES  T. 
FIELDS,    AND    WILLIAM 
FEARING    GILL. 


EDITED  BY 

WILLIAM    FEARING    GILL. 


X-Uustratrtr. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 

EELFORD,    CLARKE    &    CO 

1885. 


COPYRIGHTED. 

W.    F.    GILL, 


DONOHUE  &  HENNEBERRY,  PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS,  CHICAGOI 


PREFACE. 

HE  series  of  holiday  annuals  of  which 
this  forms  the  third  was,  as  is  very 
generally  known,  suggested  by  the  fa 
vor  with  which  the  initial  volume,  "  Lo 
tos  Leaves,"  was  received.  Unlike  its  first  predecessor, 
it  is  not  in  any  sense  a  "  club  "  book.  It  is  rather  a 
twin  brother  to  the  second  of  the  series,  "  Laurel 
Leaves,"  which  included  selections  from  many  of  the 
same  distinguished  authors  whose  names  grace  the  title- 
page  of  the  current  volume.  It  has  been  the  editor's  de 
sign,  so  far  as  was  practicable,  to  inc  ude  only  such  papers 
as  had  not  previously  found  a  permanent  place  between 
the  covers  of  a  bound  book.  Of  such,  the  commemo 
rative  verses  penned  by  our  native  poets  on  the  occa 
sion  of  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of 
Thomas  Moore,  form  a  feature  of  especial  interest. 
The  editor's  plan,  as  indicated  in  "  Laurel  Leaves,"  of 
combining  a  collection  of  poems,  stories,  and  essays  of 


PREFACE. 

standard  value,  will,  it  is  believed,  be  found  as  worthily 
borne  out  by  its  companion,  and  its  offerings  as  far  re 
moved  from  the  ephemeral  works  incident  to  the  holi 
days;  while  yet,  every  available  opportunity  has  been 
taken  to  embellish  these  jewels  of  the  mind  with  the 
brilliant  pictorial  settings  of  the  eminent  artists  of  the 
day. 

To  authors  and  publishers  who  have  kindly  co-op 
erated  with  him  in  aiding  the  work  of  preparation 
of  this  volume,  the  editor  returns  his  sincere  acknow 
ledgments. 


CONTENTS 


FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  19 

VICTOR  SED  VICTUS Victor  Hugo 25 

OUR  POET-NATURALIST James  T.  Fields     .     .     .     >  29 

IN   RESPONSE Oliver  Wendell  Holmes     .     .  39 

RoUGEGORGE Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  43 

SUMMER  GONE Gail  Hamilton    .     .  83 

SONNET  James  Russell  Lowell .     .     .  87 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  OLE  BULL    ....  Lydia  Maria  Child  89. 

THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM      .....  William   Cullen  Bryant   . 

OLD  DOMINION  DAYS .  George  Gary  Eggleston      .     .  m 

NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING H.  H. I45 

THE  Too  SOON  DEAD G.  P.  Lathrop     ,  *49 

LADY  WENTWORTH    ........  Nora  Perry l65 

PRISCILLA Edward  Eggleston 

A  DIRGE  OF  THE  LAKE Will  Carleton 

JEROMETTE ...  Wilkie  Collins    . 


CONTENTS. 


I- ACE 


LOOKING  INTO  THE  WELL  .  Louisc  Chandler  Moiilton      .  24I 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE    ......  Gl,orge  B_  Loring    .     .     .     .  24? 

IN  MEMORIAM-THOMAS  MOORE           .     .  0.  W.  Holmes  and  Others  .     .  269 

MY  FRIEND  MOSES yohn  jja,lbcrton      _  2^ 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE    ....  John  Boyle  O'Reilly    ...  303 

THE  GENIUS  OF  COMMON  SENS:;      ...//.  //.  .  ~r, 

THE  LIGHT  OF  AGES yff/in  c.   IVhittier  .     .     .     .  319 

ON  GUARD    .      .                 .   • Bert  kohl  Anerbach  ....  323 

MUSCADINES Paul  JIayne  .          ....  345 

How  ONE  MAN  WAS  SAVED Amanda  M.  Douglas  ...  353 

A  BIRTHDAY William  R.  Alger  ....  375 

OUR  FUTURE  DRAMATISTS James  Parton     ....  379 

THE  GERALDINE A'.  SJu-lhm  Mackenzie  ...  385 

THE  RATIONALE- OF  "  THE  RAVEN"     .     .  William  Fearing  Gill      ,     .  393 


HALF-TITLE    ILLUSTRATIONS    AND    TAIL-PIECES. 


PAPYRUS  LEAVES R.  Lewis Title-page 

THE  PAPYRUS-FLOWER E.  M   Wimperis     ....       iS 

CHESTNUT-TREE  AND  FLOWERS    .     .    .     .    A.  R.  Waud 23 

THE  LEAFLESS  BRANCH       A.  R.  Waud 24 

IMPERIAL  CROWN  AND  SCEPTRE  ....//.  Billings 25 


THE  BABY-KING H.  Billings 

THE  NATURALIST'S  COMPANIONS  .         .     .    R.  Lewis 

FRUIT  AND  BASKET R.  Lewis 

HARP  AND  LAUREL E.  M.  Wimperis  .... 

THE  GOLD-FREIGHTED  ARGOSIES.     .     .     .  Thomas  Muran .     .     .     . 

THE  SEA-NYMPHS Alfred  Fredericks   .     .     . 

THE  POISON- SWEETS fi.  Lewis 

THE  ROUGEGORGE  ARMS R.  Lewis 

THE  DEATH-FLOWER      .......    R.  Lewis 

SUMMER-TIME J.  H.  Dell 


28 
29 
36 
37 
4i 
42 

43 

81 
82 
83 


Xiv  LIST     OF     ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

SUMMER   FRUITS R.  Lewis 86 

AMONG  THE  LEAVES E.  M*  IVimperis     ....  87 

THE  BIRDS'  HOME E.  M.  IVimperis      ....  88 

EMBLEMS  OF  Music R,  Lewis 105 

ROME .  Thomas  Mo  ran 106 

THE  EVENING  STAR '.    .    .  E.  M.  IVimperis     ....  107 

LANDSCAPE  AND  HOLLY E.  M.  IVimperis     .     .     .     .  in 

AN  "OLD  DOMINION"  SUNDAY  ,     .     .     .  A.  ft.  IVand 143 

THE  PALMETTO  AND  THE  PINE   .     .     .     .  R,  Lewis 144 

THE  OLD  AND  NEW  YEAR R.  Lewis 145 

SUNRISE Thomas  Mo  ran 148. 

THE  HAMPSHIRE  MANSION A.  R.  Wand 176 

CROSS  AND  CROWN R.  Lewis 177 

SPIRIT  FACES A'.  Lewis 205 

ANGEL  FORMS H.  Billings 206 

CROWN  AND  THORNS       .......  L.  B.  Humphreys     ....  240 

LOOKING  INTO  THE  WELL R.  Lewis 241 

UNDER  THE  MAPLES  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  Thomas  Moran 246 

THE  ASTROLOGPR  AND  CALDRON      .     .     .  ~R.  Lewis 247 

FAME Alfred  Fredericks    ....  269 

SWORD  AND  RIFLE R.  Lewis 285 

CAPSTAN  AND  ANCHOR       R.  Lewis 303 

LOTOS  AND  TORTOISE //.  Billings 313 

EGYPTIAN  HEAD  AND  LOTOS H  Billings     ......  318 

THE  LIGHT  OF  AGES R  Lewis 319 

THE  PANTHEON  OF  THE  PAST     .     .     .     .  A.  R.  Waud 322 


LIST     OF     ILLUSTRATIONS.  XV 

PAGE 

HOME,  SWEET  HOME.     .     .     .     „     ...     R.  Lewis  ..„.„..  374 

THE  CHRISTENING-FONT A'.  Lewis 375 

THE  BIRTHDAY  PLEDGE  .     „ R.  Lewis 377 

PANSIES E.  M.  Wimperis      ....  378 

TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY  (MODERN)   ...//.  Billings 379 

TRAGEDY  AND  COMEDY  (ANTIQUE)  ...//.  Billings „  384 

THE  MUSE  OF  IRELAND R.  Lewis 385 

THE  TOURNAMENT R.  Lewis 392 

THE  LOTOS-EATER H.  Billings 393 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Engraved  by  A.  Bobbett,  J.   L.   Speer,  John  Andrew  &  Son,  Russell  &  Rich 
ardson,  and  the  Gravuretype  Co. 


THE  MUSES „ 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  PAPYRUS  .... 

LILIES  OF  THE  VALLEY 

THE  BLOSSOMS  AND  THE  BEES    .     .     . 

THE  SMITHY 

THE  DOWNFALL  OF  TYRANNY     .     .     . 

THE  POET-NATURALIST 

HARVEST  FIELD  (Moonlight)    .     .     .     . 
HARVEST  FIELD  (Daylight)      .     .     .     . 

AT  THE  MESSIAH'S  FEET 

THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE,  VIRGINIA    . 


Alfred  Fredericks  . 
V.  Lo:iis  .... 
E.  J\f.  Wimperis  . 
R.  Lewis  .... 
J?.  //.  Dell  .  .  . 
Alfred  Fredericks  . 
R.  H.  Dell  .  .  . 
E.  M.  Wimperis  . 
R.  H.  Dell  .  .  . 
L.  B.  Humphreys  . 
C.  Manrand  . 


•  Frontispiece. 

•  Front. 

•  Front. 
...  21 
.       .       .  23 
...  28 

...  23 

...  86 

...  88 

.     .     .  nc 

.     .     .  113 


LIST     OF     ILLUSTRATIONS. 


LADY  WENTWORTH    ........  Robert  Lewis  .     .....  172 

THE  LAKE R.  H.  Dell    .     .          ...  204 

JEROMETTE Sol.  Ey tinge,  Jr.     .           .     .  238 

UNDER  THE  LOCUSTS Thomas  Moran  .          ,     .     .  245 

SCENES  FROM  LALLA  ROOKH John    Tcnniel    .     ,     ,     .  271-280 

ON  GUARD D.  L.  Shcpperd  .     ,     ...  338 

FAR  AWAY  IN  THE  WEST C.  Maurand  ......  373 


FROM    MY    ARM-CHAIR, 


FROM   MY   ARM-CHAIR. 

TO    THE    CHILDREN    OF    CAMBRIDGE, 

Who  presented  to  me,  on  my  Seventy-second  Birthday,  February  27, 

'  1879,  this  Chair,  made  from  the  Wood  of  the  Village 

Blacksmiths  Chestnut-  Tree. 


BY    HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

t 

Mia  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne  ? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 
Can  I  proclaim  it  mine? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 

It  may  to  me  belong; 
Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut-tree 

Of  old  was  sung  by  me. 

Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 

When  in  the  summer  time 
The  afHuent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 

A  cavern  of  cool  shade. 

There  by  the  blacksmith's  forge  beside  the  street 

Its  btossoms  white  and  sweet 
.Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 

And  murmured  like  a  hive. 


22  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

And  when  the  winds  of  autumn,  with  a  shoutv 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,  bursting  from  the  sheath,.. 

Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath. 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches  bare, 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair, 
Have  by  my  hearthstone  found  a  home  at  last, 

And  whisper  of  the  Past. 

The  Danish  king  could  not  in  all  his  pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide  ; 
But,  seated  in  this  chair,  I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  Time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 

The  blossoms  and  the  bees, 
And  hear  the  children's  voices  shout  and  call, 

And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

I  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow  ; 

I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 
And  the  shrill  hammers  on  the  anvil  beat 

The  iron  white  with  heat ! 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for  me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Brought  back  my  youth  again. 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  memory,  like  the  mind, 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The  precious  keepsakes  into  which  is  wrought 

The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only  your  love  and  your  remembrance,  could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leafless  now  so  long, 

Blossom  again  in  song. 

FEBRUARY  27,  1879. 


VICTOR  SED  VICTUS. 


VICTOR  SED  VICTUS.* 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

N  this  our  age  of  strife  a  warrior  scarred 
Am  I,  and  eke  with  emperors  have  warred  ; 
With  Sodom's  bands  obscene  I've  battled 

long; 

Millions   of    men    and    waves    a    million 
strong 

'Gainst  me  have  roared,  but  never  made  me  quail ; 

Old  ocean's  depths  sent  up  defiant  wail, 

But  I  resisted  still  the  billows  surging, 

And  'neath  the  darkness  all-submerging 

Still  stood  unshaken  as  primeval  rock; 

I'm  not  of  those  whom  gloomy  skies  can  shock, 

Avernus  and  the  Styx  to  sound  afraid, 

Who  tremble  at  each  shallow  cavern's  shade. 

When  tyrants  hurled  against  me  from  their  height 

Their  thunders  grim,  with  crime  for  lightning's  light,. 

At  these  foul  shapes  my  verse  severe  I  aimed  ; 

Monarchs  I've  branded,  with  their  minions  shamed, 

False  deities,  each  with  his  lying  creed  ; 

Thrones,  too,  I've  given  to  the  gallows'  greed; 


*  Addressed  to  his  little  granddaughter. 
27 


28  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Falsehood,  the  vicious  sword,  the  wand  sublime  of  state, 
I've  crumbling  hurled  into  the  dreadful  gulf  of  fate  ; 
O'er  these  vile  nullities  I  soar,  triumphant,  strong, 
These  odious  Caesars,  princes,  giants,  kings  of  wrong, 
Before  the  Joves  supreme  of  every  state, 
The  men  whom  men  adore,  applaud,  or  hate, 
For  forty  years  I've  reared  untamed  my  haughty  head  ; 
And  now  behold  me  conquered,  by  a  baby  led. 
— Translated  from  "L Art  d'etre  Grandpere"  by  Abby  Lang  don  Alger. 


OUR  POET-NATURALIST. 


OUR   POET-NATURALIST. 


JAMES   T.    FIELDS. 

HERE  are  few  writers  who  have  died  and 
left  more  interesting  books  behind  them 
than  Henry  Thoreau.  What  more  delight 
ful  reading  can  there  be  than  his  "  Life 
in  the  Woods,"  his  "  Excursions  in  Field 
and  Forest,"  his  "Week  on  the  Concord 
;and  Merrimac  Rivers,"  his  "Yankee  in  Canada,"  and  his 
adventures  in  the  "  Maine  Woods  and  on  Cape  Cod  "  ? 
These  books  never  fail  to  bring  their  own  enchantment 
with  them,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  eulogies  bestowed 
upon  them  oy  such  rare  judges  as  Emerson,  Curtis,  Alcott, 
•and  Channing.  In  summer  and  winter,  by  the  fireside  or 
in  the  open  air,  they  are  sweet  and  invigorating  compan 
ions,  and  they  can  be  read  over  and  over  again  with 
profit  and  pleasure.  When  you  walk  beside  Thoreau  you 
.get  nature  at  first  hand,  and  no  mere  hearsay  reports  of 
shipwrecks,  mountains,  rivers,  and  animals.  The  birds 
knew  him  by  heart,  and  all  forest  and  meadow  people  were 
his  intimates.  You  can  learn  from  Thoreau  many  things 
you  can  be  taught  nowhere  else ;  and  so  he  is  always  a 
nutritious  author,  to  young  people  especially. 

Like  Agassiz,  he  was  a  tcacJier  in  the  best  sense  of  that 
much-abused  office.  An  hour's  silent  talk  from  him  is  a 
real  boon,  and  the  more  you  get  out  of  him  the  richer  you 
become. 


32  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Originality  is  a  patent  quality  with  him.  Many  modern 
works  on  natural  history  are  made  as  apothecaries  make  a 
new  mixture,  by  pouring  out  of  several  vessels  into  a  new 
bottle ;  but  Thoreau  went  into  the  open  laboratories  of 
nature  and  gathered  what  he  offers  with  his  own  hands.  He 
was  one  of  the  sharpest  observers  who  ever  lived,  and  when- 
over  he  went  abroad  among  the  scenes  he  loved  to  study,, 
his  eyes  were  never  absent  from  his  face.  He  took  nothing 
for  granted,  and  what  he  could  not  see  he  would  never 
report.  "  Accuracy  or  silence "  was  his  motto.  He  had  a 
hunger  and  thirst  for  the  truth  in  matters  of  information, 
and  rested  only  at  the  fountain-head  when  he  was  hunting 
for  a  fact,  believing  with  Charles  Kingsley  that  it  is  better- 
to  know  one  thing  than  to  know  about  a  thousand  things. 
He  believed  that  God  was  always  educating  man,  and  he 
wished  to  avail  himself  of  the  situation. 

When  you  go  to  Concord,  in  the  State  of  Massachusetts, 
do  not  fail  to  visit  the  old-fashioned  house  where  Thoreau 
was  born,  in  the  year  1817.  Almost  any  one  you  meet  on 
the  road  will  tell  you  where  to  find  the  ancient  dwelling, 
for  he  is  a  prophet  with  much  honor  in  his  own  birth- 
place,  and  the  inhabitants  love  to  speak  of  him  to  this  day.. 
It  would  be  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune  if  you  should, 
chance  on  Mr.  Emerson,  or  Mr.  Alcott,  or  Mr.  Channing,. 
during  your  ramble,  for  either  of  them,  having  on  hand 
always  a  certain  amount  of  priceless  leisure  to  bestow  on  a 
stranger  in  search  of  Thoreau-localities,  will  kindly  lead  you 
perhaps  to  the  Old  Virginia  Road,  as  it  is  called,  and  show 
you  the  sunny  meadows  and  the  old  New  England  house 
you  are  looking  for.  If  you  evince  a  proper  enthusiasm  for 
the  place,  you  will,  no  doubt,  be  taken  out  to  Walden  Pond,. 


OUR     POET-NATURALIST.  33 

which  will  be  a  treat  indeed,  for  you  will  get  good  talk  all 
the  way  thither.  You  will  see  the  path  along  which  bare 
footed  Henry,  when  a  boy,  drove  the  cows  to  pasture,  and 
pondered,  no  doubt,  his  juvenile  lesson  by  the  way.  I  re 
member  he  once  described  to  me,  on  that  very  road,  a 
favorite  cow  which  he  had  the  care  of  thirty  years  before  ; 
and  if  she  had  been  his  own  grandmother,  he  could  not 
have  employed  tenderer  phrases  about  her.  In  youth  his 
eyes  and  ears  were  ever  on  the  alert,  seeing  and  hearing 
what  was  going  on  in  that  delightful  region  where  his  first 
years  were  passed.  It  was  his  great  good  luck  to  be  born 
in  the  country,  and  to  have  his  ideas  nurtured  in  the  pure 
air  of  such  a  rural  life  as  the  one  he  came  up  in. 

When  he  was  old  enough  he  went  to  Harvard  College, 
and  graduated  in  the  year  1837.  Like  many  other  students, 
he  taught  a  school  in  his  young  manhood,  but  he  soon  re 
linquished  that  employment  and  went  to  work  with  his 
father  at  the  trade  of  lead-pencil  making.  When  he  had 
achieved  the  art  of  producing  as  good  pencils  as  could  be 
made  anywhere  in  the  world,  he  made  his  bow  to  that  calling, 
and  declined  to  do  any  more  service  in  a  line  where  he  had 
perfected  himself.  He  had  the  wise  art  of  living,  contentedly 
on  very  little,  and  so  when  he  needed  funds  for  a  livelihood 
so  simple  as  hi.s,  he  made  a  pause  in  his  wood-craft  studies, 
stepped  out  and  built  a  fence,  or  planted  a  garden,  or  grafted 
a  tree,  and  so  got  a  sufficient  sum  of  money  to  float  him 
along  comfortably  for  another  month  or  two.  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  good  thereof,  was,  no  doubt,  his  wise  reply 
when  he  was  urged  to  lay  up  for  the  future. '  His  skill  as  a 
surveyor  gave  him  plenty  to  do  when  he  wanted  employment 
of  that  kind,  and  his  mathematical  knowledge  being  known 


34  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

and  appreciated, 'gave  him  currency  as  a  measurer  of  land 
and  timber.  His  senses  were  so  acute,  he  utilized  his  special 
faculties  as  few  men  were  able  to  do.  It  is  said  he  could 
pace  sixteen  rods  more  accurately  than  another  could  mea 
sure  them  with  the  chain.  His  feet  in  the  wood-paths  at 
night  were  surer  than  other  people's  eyes.  He  was  never 
daunted  by  the  weather,  and  July  and  January  were  alike 
friendly  to  his  pursuits.  He  had  no  expensive  tastes,  and  if 
he  wished  to  smoke  he  twisted  up  dry  lily-stems  and  puffed 
away  over  his  task.  He  knew  where  grapes  and  chestnuts 
could  be  had  for  nothing,  and  so  he  browsed  away  without  a 
thought  of  table  luxuries.  When  he  was  hungry  a  ripe  apple 
supplied  him  with  something  to  eat,  and  he  always  carried  a 
supply  in  his  pocket  when  on  a  tramp  into  the  forest.  A 
man  with  so  few  wants  could  bivouac  contentedly  over  his 
studies  two  years  alone  in  a  small  farm-house  on  the  borders 
of  Walden  Pond,  and  never  be  troubled  about  champagne 
and  oyster-patties  outside  the  green  world  he  lived  in.  His 
necessities  were  an  old  volume  to  press  plants  in,  a  diary  for 
observations  on  country  things,  a  spy-glass  for  birds,  a  micro 
scope,  a  jack-knife,  and  some  twine.  His  dress  must  be 
simple  and  strong,  and  thus  equipped,  he  was  ready  for  all 
emergencies,  and  could  sing  in  this  wise  : 

"I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears  ; 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before  ; 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore." 

He  was  a  true  bard  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  his  say 
ings  in  prose  are  sometimes  redolent  of  exquisite  poetry,  as 
when  he  says:  "  The  blue-bird  carries  the  sky  on  his  back." 
He  had  lived  so  much  under  the  open  heavens  that  somehow 


OUR     POET -NATURALIST.  35 

he  always  seemed  a  part  of  outdoors.  I  used  to  think  I 
could  tell  when  he  was  in  Boston  by  a  kind  of  pine-tree  and 
apple-tree  odor  that  preceded  him,  and  accordingly  counted  on 
a  call  that  day  from  him.  Sydney  Smith  said  that  a  certain 
London  cockney,  when  he  visited  the  country,  made  all  the 
region  round  about  smell  like  Piccadilly.  When  Thoreau 
came  to  Boston  from  Concord  he  brought  a  rural  fragrance 
with  him  from  his  native  fields  into  our  streets  and  lanes. 
Spicy  odors  of  black  birch,  hickory  buds,  and  pennyroyal 
lingered  about  his  garments  and  made  his  presence  welcome 
and  sweet. 

In  his  way,  Thoreau  was  a  wide  reader,  but  his  books 
were  not  those  commonly  chosen  ;  the  quotations  in  his  pub 
lished  works  show  his  quaint  and  carefal  excursions  among 
authors.  Dr.  Donne,  Samuel  Daniel,  Charles  Cotton,  Izaak 
Walton,  Michael  Drayton,  were  among  his  admired  writers. 
Familiar  with  the  classics,  he  made  translations  from  Homer, 
Pindar,  Pliny,  and  many  other  wise  men  of  antiquity,  but  his 
teachers  were  the  woods,  the  rivers,  and  the  skies,  and  his 
communion  with  them  was  unceasing.  His  journals,  if  they 
are  ever  published,  will  give  him  a  place  among  the  keenest 
observers  who  have  ever  lived,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  some 
editor  will  be  found  competent  to  prepare  them  for  the  press. 
He  was  the  poet-naturalist  of  America,  and  our  literature 
will  never  be  complete  without  his  truthful  records  of  so 
many  years  of  patient  observations.  The  works  he  has 
printed  and  left  for  our  perusal  teach  self-reliance,  courage, 
and  love  of  the  country.  He  believed  that  only  in  nature 
can  pure  health  be  found,  and  endeavored  all  his  life  to  prove 
the  doctrine  he  taught.  "  I  would  keep,"  he  says,  "  some 
book  of  natural  history  always  by  me  as  a  sort  of  elixir,  the 


30  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

reading  of  which  should  restore  the  tone  of  the  system.'" 
And  that  is  just  what  his  own  writings  are  eminently  capable 
of  doing.  A  fresh,  invigorating  breeze  is  always  stirring 
through  his  pages,  and  the  reader  gets  the  benefit  of  it  wher 
ever  he  chances  to  turn  the  leaf. 

Mr.  Emerson,  reflecting  on  Thoreau's  death,  which  oc 
curred  on  the  6th  of  May,  1862,  says:  "The  country  knows 
not  yet,  or  in  the  least  part,  how  great  a  son  it  has  lost. 
...  He  had,  in  a  short  life,  exhausted  the  capabilities 
of  this  world  ;  wherever  there  is  knowledge,  wherever  there 
is  virtue,  wherever  there  is  beauty,  he  will  find  a  home." 


IN    RESPONSE. 


•IN  RESPONSE. 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

UCH    kindness   the  scowl  of  a  cynic  would 

soften, 
His  pulse  beat  its  way  to  some  eloquent 

word  : 
Alas !    my   poor  accents   have    echoed   too 

often, 
Like  that  "  Pinafore  "  music  you've  some  of  you  heard. 

Do  you  know  me,  dear  strangers,  the  hundredth-time  comer, 
At  banquets  and  feasts,  since  the  days  of  my  spring? 

Ah  !  would  I  could  borrow  one  rose  of  my  summer, 
But  this  is  the  leaf  of  my  autumn  I  bring. 

I  look  at  your  faces :   I'm  sure  there  are  some  from 
The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as  my  own  ; 

You  think  you  remember  the  place  you  have  come  from, 
But  how  it  has  changed  in  the  years  that  have  flown ! 

»• 
Unaltered,  'tis  true,  is  the  hall  we  call.'"  Funnel,!' 

Still  fights  the  "  Old  South  "  in  the  battle  for  life; 
But  we've  opened  the  door  to  the  West  through  the  tunnel, 

And  we've  cut  off  Fort  Kill  with  our  Amazon  knife. 


Read  at  the  breakfast  tendered  to  Dr.  Holmes  by  the  Century  Club,  New  York,  May,  1879. 


40  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

You  should  see  the  new  Westminster,  Boston  has  builded, 
Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums  of  arts  ; 

You  should  see  the  great  dome,  we  have  gorgeously  gilded- 
'Tis  the  light  of  our  eyes,  'tis  the  joy  of  our  hearts. 

When' first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid  found  it, 

As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with  the  stars  in  his  wake, 

He  thought  'twas  the  sun,  and  kept  circling  around  it 
Till  Edison  signalled  "  You've  made  a  mistake  !  " 

We  are  proud  of  our  city — her  fast- growing  figure, 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  her  brain  and  her  hands  ; 

But  we're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart  has  grown  bigger, 
And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her  girdle  expands. 

One  lesson  the  rubric  of  conflict  has  taught  her, 

Though  parted  awhile  by  war's  earth-rending  shocks: 

The  lines  that  divide  us  are  written  in  water, 
The  love  that  unites  us,  cut  deep  in  the  rock. 

As  well  might  the  Judas  of  treason  endeavor 
To  write  his  black  name  on  the  disc  of  the  sea, 

As  try  the  bright  star-wreath  that  binds  us  to  sever, 
And  blot  the  fair  legend  of  "  Many  in  One." 

We  love  YOU,  tall  sister,  the  stately,  the  splendid — 
The  banner  of  empire  floats  high  on  your  towers, 

Yet  ever  in  welcome,  your  arms  are  extended  ; 
We  share  in  your  splendors,  your  glory  is  ours. 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 


Al 


Yes,  Queen  of  the  Continent !  all  of  us  own  thee, 
The  gold-freighted  argosies  flock  at  thy  call  ; 

The  naiads,  the  sea  nymphs  leave  me  to  enthrone  thee, 
But  the  Broadway  of  one,  is  the  highway  of  all. 

I  thank  you — three  words  that  can  hardly  be  mended, 
Though  phrases  on  phrases  their  eloquence  pile, 

If  you  hear  the  heart's  throb  with  their  syllables  blended, 
And  read  all  they  mean  in  a  sunshiny  smile. 


ROUGEGORGE. 


ROUGEGORGE. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 

HE  Baron  Rougegorge  had  a  friend  whom  he 
loved  with  the  sole  passion  of  which  he  had 
ever  seemed  capable.  The  two  had  been 
associated  together  in  their  studies  through 
boyhood  ;  they  had  gone  through  a  cam 
paign  side  by  side  ;  they  had  traversed 
Europe — the  byways  of  Bavaria,  the  high 
ways  of  the  Apennines — pouring  their  fancies,  surprises,  and 
pleasures  into  each  other's  ear  as  if  they  had  been  two  mar 
ried  lovers. 

There  was  something  singularly  pure  and  noble  about  St. 
Marc  ;  he  had  a  half-boyish  beauty  of  his  own  ;  his  winning 
manners  made  every  one  turn  to  do  him  favors;  and  Rouge- 
gorge  used  to  say  that  he  himself  breathed  through  him  ; 
that  he  found  in  him  his  salvation  ;  that  it  was  St.  Marc  who 
l<ept  his  faith  alive,  for  how  could  he  disbelieve  in  miracles 
when  here  was  the  constant  miracle  before  his  eyes  of  such  a 
inan  as  St.  Marc  being  the  friend  of  such  a  man  as  Rouge- 
igorge  ? 

For  the  Baron  Rougegprge  was  by  no  means  a  precioso — 
'neither  a  saint  nor  a  hypocrite ;  but  the  possessor  of  un 
bounded  wealth,  exposed  to  every  temptation,  and  unpro 
tected  since  his  early  youth ;  there  were  stains  upon  his 
memory  that  used  now  and  then  to  darken  his  face  when  he 
-looked  upon  the  fair  and  open  countenance  of  his  friend. 


46  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

One  day,  in  a  sudden  fury,  Rougegorge  quitted  Paris  alone. 

St.  Marc  had  become  enamored  of  a  woman  who  was. 
breathing  beauty,  and  about  whom  all  the  world  was  going 
mad  just  then — the  more  singularly  mad  since  she  was  young 
and  unmarried,  and  since  it  is  no  custom  of  Paris  to  ecstacize 
itself  over  youth  and  innocence.  To  St.  Marc,  Mademoiselle 
Ayacinthe  de  Valentinois  became  the  cynosure  of  existence  ;. 
but  to  Mademoiselle' Ayacinthe,  St.  Marc  was  merely  one  in 
a  thousand :  she  sharpened  her  weapons  on  him,  perhaps,, 
preparatory  to  entrance  on  her  grand  career.  St.  Marc,, 
moreover,  was  poor,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Valentinois  had  no- 
fortune  but  her  name  and  that  blood  which  blossomed  out  in 
such  roses  on  her  velvet  cheek,  which  burned  with  such  splen 
did  fire  in  her  dark  eyes. 

Rougegorge  had  never  seen  her,  but  he  forefelt  what  the 
end  must  be  of  such  a  love  as  this.  Yet  he  did  not  know 
how  to  wait  for  it.  He  fled.  Anger  and  hostile  apprehensioni 
together  goaded  him  on,  and  he  did  not  pause  till  he  stood 
under  the  fervid  suns  of  the  far  East.  For  this  inconsiderate- 
flight  of  his  he  never  forgave  himself;  and  he  had  reason. 
The  first  mail  which  he  opened  brought  him  the  intelligence 
that  St.  Marc  had  cut  his  throat. 

For  a  moment  the  blow  crushed  him  into  the  earth  as  a 
thunderbolt  might  have  done.  The  one  thing  he  loved  in  alt 
the  world  lost — lost,  murdered,  slain  by  a  woman's  whim,  a 
coquette's  caprice  !  The  life  which  had  been  the  universe  to 
him  gone  out  into  darkness  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  a  Valen 
tinois  !  Dead  for  her  holiday,  to  swell  the  purple  of  her 
triumph  !,  Suddenly  Rougegorge  rose  and  turned  his  face 
homeward.  St.  Marc  was  dead  indeed,  but  he  had  left  him 
the  legacy  of  his  vengeance. 


ROUGEGORGE.  47 

When  the  Baron  Rougegorge  reached  his  old  quarters  in  the 
faubourg,  it  was  at  first  more  than  he  could  bear — the  familiar 
rooms,  the  pipes,  the  foils,  the  music,  the  cushions  where  yet 
lingered  the  very  imprint  of  St.  Marc's  golden  head.  Pros 
trate  there,  he  wet  them  with  tears  that  his  eyes  had  never 
known  before.  Then  he  plunged  out  of  the  place  and  forgot 
it  in  a  week's  debauch.  After  that,  as  if  the  touch  of  fresh 
sin  had  strengthened  all  his  purposes  and  given  him  a  bitter 
•delight  in  their  fulfilment,  he  took  life  up  where  he  left  it ; 
-and  no  one  would  have  dreamed  that  Rougegorge  had  an 
emotion  who  saw  him  lounging  by  on  a  horse  that  was  only 
black  fire  obedient  to  his  finger,  or  met  him  loitering,  with  his 
lazy  repartee  like  a  half-sheathed  rapier,  through  the  elegant 
salons,  every  one  of  which  opened  magically  to  receive  him, 
and  where  a  polished  manner,  an  absolute  indifference,  and 
mysterious  rumors  of  wicked  adventure — which  latter  be 
witch  women  as  Terra  Incognita  does  a  traveller — made  him 
the  hero  of  the  hour.  Poor  work  for  a  man  of  naturally 
proud  and  courageous  temper  !  He  knew  it  well,  but  only 
smiled  and  bided  his  time. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  his  return  to  Paris,  and  before  he 
had  joined  the  gay  rout  which  night  and  day  kept  its  revel, 
that  Rougegorge  paused  one  moment  in  the  lobby  just  as  the 
•carriages  were  being  called  at  the  door  of  the  opera-house. 
He  had  merely  paused  to  look  about  and  see  of  whom  the 
world  consisted  ;  and,  glancing  o\'er  the  throng,  it  was  some 
seconds  before  his  glance  returned  and  rested  on  a  group 
beside  him — a  group  of  chaperon  and  gallants,  a  gray-haired 
nobleman  wearing  decorations  of  the  African  wars,  and  on  his 
arm  a  lady  in  full  dress,  and  with  one  end  of  the  rose-colored 
.gauze  of  a  transparent  burnous  thrown  veil-like  over  her  head 


48  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

and  face.  For  an  instant,  Rougegorge,  startled  by  the- 
bewildering  beauty  of  that  face,  said  half  unconsciously  to. 
himself  that  so  some  spirit  might  look  out  through  th^ 
sunset-tinged  clouds  of  heaven.  Then  his  eye  wandered  over* 
the  chevaliers  beyond,  and  came  back  to  her  again  just  as  the 
old  nobleman  offered  a  fur  mantle,  and,  turning  her  head,  her 
glance  during  one  moment  lay  full  upon  the  Baron  and  lin 
gered  there.  No  spirit  certainly,  for  it  was  the  beating  blood 
that  rioted  upon  that  cheek,  in  those  voluptuous  lips  ;  it  was. 
rapturous  earthly  life  that  shone  from  that  long,  languishing 
eye,  where  the  darkness  of  iris  and  lash  smothered  radiance 
at  its  source — from  that  smile  that  thrilled  the  heart's  core 
of  the  beholder.  She  seemed  some  incarnation  of  the 
Oriental  rose  with  all  its  damask  flushes,  its  intoxicating 
sweetness.  And  in  the  same  breath  with  these  swift  fancies 
a  voice  called  from  without,  and  the  group  moved  forward 
at  the  words,  "  Monsieur  de  Valentinois'  carriage  stops 
the  way."  The  crowd  swung  up  round  her  as  she  went, 
and  Rougegorge  gnashed  his  teeth  and  followed  after. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Rougegorge  if  he  had  deigned 
to  bethink  himself.  He  had  seen  the  power  before  which  St. 
Marc  fell :  better  for  him  to  have  confessed  its  omnipotence 
and  fled  while  yet  he  might.  But  Fate  does  not  allow  us  to 
attempter  her  purposes  with  ours  :  he  went  straight  on. 

Had  she  been  twice  as  unapproachable  in  the  attractile 
distance  at  which  she  held  all  men,  had  she  been  twice  as  foul 
as  she  was  fair,  indeed,  that  would  not  have  hindered  his 
formal  request  to  the  old  African  soldier,  a  month  thereafter, 
for  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  de  Valentinois,  but  not  until 
he  had  endeavored  to  make  himself — as  past  success  told 
him,  without  conceit,  that  he  well  knew  how  to  do — a. 


ROUGEGORGE.  49 

familiar  and  pleasant  thought  to  her  mind.  It  required  some 
determination,  but  not  much  art,  for  him  to  become  the  cen 
tral  point  around  which  all  other  events  of  her  day  revolved. 

The  state  of  the  Valentinois  finances  told  better  than  any 
other  historian  could  hope  to  do  the  character  of  the  race,  of 
the  stream  that  ran  in  their  veins — the  rich  red  stream  fed  on 
old  wines  and  lavish  dainties — whose  pride  and  pleasure  had 
been  pampered  till  estate  after  estate,  vanishing  beneath  its 
insatiate  desires,  had  left  this  generation  nothing  but  the 
name  it  had  inherited  and  the  pension  it  had  earned. 

When  therefore  the  salons  heard  that  the  Baron  Rouge- 
gorge  had  made  his  proposals  of  marriage  for  the  Valentinois, 
"  Ah,  well,"  said  the  united  voice  there,  "  dukes  require  a 
dower — princes  flatter  but  hesitate.  Rougegorge  is  of  an  old 
house,  and  his  fortune  is  immense.  He  is  made  of  gold. 
Voila !  "  No  one  there  ventured  for  a  moment  upon  such  an 
absurdly  romantic  thing  as  to  imagine  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Valentinois  loved  the  Baron — loved  him  with  all  that  passion 
and  abandonment  with  which  her  race  had  always  loved  and 
hated. 

Rougegorge  did  not  find  the  time  that  intervened  between 
the  day  of  his  first  success  and  of  his  nuptials  hanging  at  all 
heavily  upon  his  hands.  There  were  countless  places  where 
he  had  the  opportunity  of  being  constantly  beside  his  be 
trothed,  and  of  endearing  himself  to  her  by  the  mere  fact  of 
presence — on  the  drive,  at  the  theatre,  at  fete  cJiampetre,  in 
the  drawing-room  at  her  uncle's  house.  There  was  nothing 
in  all  that  to  warn  him  of  any  accident :  it  had  been,  on  the 
contrary,  a  part  of  his  plan.  To  win  her  love,  he  said, 
he  must  at  least  first  make  her  acquaintance.  It  pleased 
him  that  she  should  see  him  gallant,  gracious,  and  followed 


50  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

after.  His  good-fortune,  thus  far,  gave  him  a  buoyant 
humor,  which  shed  a  sort  of  lustre  upon  his  face,  his  manner 
— that  made  him,  where  he  chose  to  be  so,  irresistible.  They 
were  always  in  the  company  of  several,  saying  little  to  each 
other:  he  had  never  yet  seen  her  alone.  He  had  not  uttered 
a  tender  word,  she  had  confessed  no  love ;  but  he  was  as  sure 
of  the  emotion  in  her  bosom  as  the  diviner  is  of  the  ore 
beneath  his  quivering  hazel-rod :  eagerly  he  trod  forward 
toward  the  completion  of  his  purpose — already  he  saw  his 
friend  avenged  ! 

One  day  he  met  her  just  issuing  from  the  church  door, 
and  joined  her  in  a  half-dozen  steps,  while  her  servant  dis 
creetly  fell  behind  till  the  carriage  drove  up.  She  had  been 
at  the  confessional — for  the  last  time  before  her  marriage : 
there  was  on  her  face  such  a  grave  sweetness,  such  a  simple 
air  supplying  the  place  of  all  her  archest  witcheries,  that 
Rougegorge  forgot  everything  else  in  the  brief  moment  he 
stood  by  her  side.  A  strange  tremble  vibrated  through  his 
heart,  and  told  him  in  a  muffled  way  to  beware  lest  he  loved 
her.  "  This  woman  can  mean  nothing  but  good,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "  Too  young  to  be  anything  but  innocent,  it  is  not 
her  fault  that  men  blow  out  their  brains  at  her  feet.  If  St. 
Marc  chose  an  impossibility,  so  much  the  worse  for  St. 
Marc." 

So  much  the  worse  for  Rougegorge!  With  the  thought 
his  brow  darkened  :  that  muffled  tremor  disquieted  him  again. 
Another  thought  flashed  after  it  upon  him — a  sense  of  danger 
in  the  air.  He  had  turned  toward  a  lapidary's  before  the 
carriage,  with  its  happy  burden,  rolled  from  sight,  and  the 
great  diamond,  which  he  had  worn  upon  his  finger,  blank  for 
so  many  years,  after  that  carried  a  death's  head  engraved 


ROU  GE  GORGE.  51 

upon  its  table,  the  better  that  its  every  lance  'of  light  might 
prick  him  to  his  purpose — might  pierce  him  with  remem 
brance  of  the  debt  behind,  of  the  work  before — might  call  up 
that  golden  head,  that  pure  white  face  of  St.  Marc,  and  her 
voice  dealing  him  death. 

If  ever  any  single  drop  of  any  proud  old  ancestor's  blood 
ran  cold. at  the  violence  he  did  it  in  this  lie  which  he  was 
living,  mounted  to  his  forehead  with  shame  of  flowing  in  the 
veins  of  a  hypocrite  and  dastard,  Rougegorge  had  but  to 
remember  that  one  dread  moment  of  St.  Marc's  desperation 
to  drown  it  in  a  hot  and  hating  torrent  of  his  own — to  find 
himself  more  keenly  attempered  to  his  deed  than  he  was 
before. 

On  the  night  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  bridal 
the  two  were  alone  together  momentarily  ere  Rougegorge 
departed,  and  standing  by  the  first  door  of  the  suite. 
41  Adieu,  mademoiselle,  until  to-morrow,  and  then  no  more 
adieux,"  said  he. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  up,  the  blush  deepening 
in  her  lovely  cheek,  while  she  tangled  her  fingers  in  the 
shadow  of  a  heavily-drooping  tress.  "  Monsieur,"  she  said, 
half  under  her  breath,  "  I  have  not  known  how  to  approach 
it — you  have  not  given  me  opportunity  before — but  I  have 
feared  lest — ' 

"  Lest  I  hurried  my  marriage  too  much?"  he  said,  gayly, 
yet  with  a  certain  haughtiness. 

"  Because,  monsieur,"  she  went  on  in  her  simplicity,  "  I 
fear  that  you  may  not  know  me — that  you  are  but  imposed 
upon  by  what  is  called  my  beauty — 

"  Fear  nothing  less,"  he  answered,  bending  over  her  as  she 
leaned  her  hand  on  the  console,  so  that  the  fragrance  of  her 


52  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

mouth  swept  over  upon  his.  Her  eyes  fell,  her  lips  trem 
bled. 

"  Since  I  can  imagine  no  destiny  more  melancholy,  more 
maddening,  than  for  a  woman  to  receive  the  caresses  of  a 
man  who  does  not  love  her,"  she  murmured. 

"  Fate  that  cannot  be  yours!"  he  exclaimed.  He  meant 
no  falsehood  then  :  he  meant  a  threat.  But  in  the  same 
moment  she  had  lifted  her  face,  with  its  still  drooping  eyelids, 
where  he  bent.  All  her  love  loaded  the  virgin  lips  :  he  bent 
lower,  and  they  clung  to  his  one  instant,  while  a  thrill  of 
heavenly  fire  seemed  to  shoot  from  them  through  his  brain ; 
and  Rougegorge  knew  that  the  fruit  was  ripe  to  his  hand. 
He  went  out  without  a  word  :  the  house  was  stifling  him. 
Had  a  Rougegorge  lied  ?  or  why  was  his  heart  beating  so 
strongly  beneath  his  breast  ? — not  beating,  but  shaking,  flut 
tering  and  shaking  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind  ? 

The  civil  contract  had  been  already  signed,  and  the  next 
day  all  the  world  walked  in  orange  blossoms  and  myrtles,  and 
the  Baroness  Rougegorge  went  home. 

Not  down  to  the  old  Burgundian  estates,  the  ancient 
castle  whose  stones  were  almost  hidden  with  the  clambering 
white  roses — whose  demesnes  lay  in  leagues  of  sunshine 
and  the  shadow  of  thick  forests.  Without  acknowledging 
it  in  as  many  words  to  himself,  Rougegorge  spared  that 
abode  for  the  bliss  of  some  future  day:  at  present  he 
had  work  on  hand,  and  in  his  fancy  of  the  future 
the  first  Baroness  Rougegorge  was  to  be  a  short-lived 
woman. 

They  went  to  the  house  through  which  Haussmann  cut  an 
archway  the  other  day  in  making  an  alley  from  the  Street  of 
the  Empire  into  the  old  Street  of  the  Malediction — an  anti- 


RO  U  GEGORGE.  53 

quated  family  residence,  whose  stone  fagade  had  been  yester 
day  gloomily  barred  from  the  street  with  great  dismal 
shutters,  and  one  that  had  somewhat  the  air  of  a  prison  with 
its  deep  and  heavily  mullioned  windows,  even  when  thrown 
open  festally — a  house  familiar  with  revolutions  and  for  ever 
on  its  guard  ;  yet  a  magnificent  mansion  still,  although  the 
pleasure-grounds  and  shrubbery  once  surrounding  it  had  been 
given  up  long  ago,  and  palaces  built  in  their  stead.  Within, 
its  sumptuous  suites  were  already  caprices  of  luxury.  At  cer 
tain  hours  the  sunshine  fell  in  joyous  illumination  through 
the  deep  casements.  There  were  pictures  that  brought  ail 
glories  of  earth  and  heaven  to  rest  upon  the  walls,  and 
statues  that  made  it  seem  as  if  gods  and  goddesses  yet  wan 
dered  among  us.  There  wanted  nothing  to  complete  its 
charm  except  the  happy  face,  the  singing  voice  of  this  young 
and  exquisite  being  now  moving  through  it  on  the  arm  of  her 
bridegroom,  the  silent  Baron,  already  beginning  to  be  tor 
mented  with  a  strange,  unnatural  struggle.  To  him  it 
wanted  something  more — the  face,  the  voice  of  St.  Marc. 
Yet  why  not  forget  it  all?  why  not  compassionate?  Did 
she  compassionate  ?  They  were  alone — she,  timid,  tearful, 
tender;  he,  courtly,  but  making  no  protest  of  passion — 
strangely  still,  indeed,  whether  with  suppressed  stress  of 
feeling  or  from  the  nature  of  his  kind,  how  should  she 
say?  She  felt  toward  him  perhaps  a  singular,  new  fear, 
half  awe  and  half  respect,  that  could  but  deepen  all  the 
rest — yearning  affection  and  admiring  faith. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  young  Baroness  awoke 
from  her  sweet,  deep  sleep.  For  the  first  moment  she 
imagined  that  she  was  alone.  The  light  burned  softly, 
moonbeams  lay  on  the  purple  velvet  of  the  floor,  and  out  cf 


54  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

the  lofty  rose-window  she  saw  the  moon  drifting  through 
clouds  of  foam  across  the  perfect  sapphire  of  the  night.  Di 
rectly  afterward  her  eye  fell  upon  the  Baron  sitting  beneath 
the  lamp,  his  face  in  white  relief  against  the  curtain  that  shut 
off  the  alcove-like  room  where  they  were  from  the  larger  one 
of  the  apartment.  She  suffered  her  gaze  to  rest  upon  him 
with  a  trembling,  lovely  smile — no  longer  the  secure,  assured 
radiance  of  the  proud  queen  of  hearts,  but  a  blushing  and 
beseeching  smile  on  him  from  whom  all  the  sunshine  and 
happiness  of  her  life  must  come.  .The  Baron  did  not  return 
it.  He  was  gazing  at  her  with  a  steady  sternness  that  at  first 
perplexed  and  then  alarmed  her. 

"You  are  not  well?"  she  cried. 

"  Perfectly  so,"  he  answered.  "I  have  something  to  say 
to  you." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  seemed  already  to  have  said  it. 
She  listened  in  a  dumb  amazement.  Just  out  of  the  rosy 
slumber  of  supreme  happiness,  this  icy  breath  froze  her, 
while  she  heard  it,  into  stone. 

"  I  had  a  friend,"  said  the  Baron.  "  He  was  all  I  had  ;  he 
was  my  life.  His  name  was  St.  Marc." 

"Ah,  I  remember  him!"  she  exclaimed.  Then,  as  he 
paused,  and  half-rising  from  her  pillow,  with  a  vague  intuition 
that  she  was  upon  her  defence — that  she  must  answer,  though 
to  what  she  knew  not — "Ah,  I  remember  him — St.  Marc. 
He  had  the  face  of  Guido's  angel  who  slays  the  dragon," 
hesitatingly;  "yet  he  was  like  a  woman — 

"You  remember  him?  He  took  his  own  life" — looking 
at  her  with  eyes  that  transpierced  her  and  made  her  writhe 
in  a  dreadful  premonition  of  unknown  disaster  beneath  their 
glance,  despite  herself  and  her  unconscious  ignorance.  The 


ROUGEGORGE.  55 

drops  stood  on  his  forehead.  It  was  not  so  easy,  after  all  ; 
and  this  woman  was  so  beautiful ! 

"  They  told  me  so,"  she  was  saying,  gently.  "  It  made 
me  shiver.  It  was  dreadful.  Some  woman,  they  thought, 
was  the  reason." 

"  A  woman  was  the  reason  !  A  woman  trolled  him  on 
with  her  false  promises,  her  damnable  wiles — lured  him  to 
his  ruin,  betrayed  him  to  death  !  "  For  suddenly  the  awful 
scene  of  that  death  grew  real  again  to  him.  He  felt  the 
pangs  St.  Marc  himself  had  felt — the  empty  earth,  the  black 
despair. 

"  Do  not  speak  so — you  terrify  me !  "  she  cried,  growing 
paler  and  paler  with  presentiment  of  evil.  "  It  is  cruel.  She 
never  could  have  known  what  she  did?  Is  it  not  so?  Ah> 
your  eyes  are  like  lightnings!  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  " 
she  demanded,  with  the  sob  in  her  throat,  and  thrusting  back 
her  falling  hair  from  her  bewildered  eyes.  "  Do  not  think  of 
her,  my  husband.  Forgive  her,  since  you  loved  him  thus. 
Forgive  her  as  he  must  do,  now  that  he  sees — " 

"Forgive  her?  I  vowed  vengeance  upon  her!  I  came 
with  it  from  Assyria!"  he  cried,  rising  and  advancing  with 
uplifted  hand,  so  that  she  cowered,  but  in  a  moment  rose 
again.  Death  from  that  hand  were  better  than  the  insane 
words  he  was  uttering.  "  I  found  her,  I  won  her — her  love, 
her  first  love.  I  know  what  I  say!  "  his  voice  swelling  till  it 
was  like  a  groan.  "  I  won  her  love  that  I  might  wither  her 
with  the  knowledge  of  my  abhorrence  ;  that  I  might  make 
the  world  as  hollow  to  her  as  she  made  it  to  St.  Marc  ;  that 
she  might  suffer  the  same  contempt,  the  same  misery,  the 
same  despair !  " 

"  I  do  not — I  do  not  comprehend,"  she  murmured  over 


56  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

and  over  again,  between  chattering  teeth,  pressing  her  hands 
tightly  on  her  temples,  and  still  surveying  him  with  those 
wild  eyes.  "  I  do  not — I  have  lost — something  has  happened 
to  me.  Do  you  mean — 

"  I  mean  that  you,  you  are  his  murderess,"  the  syllables 
falling  as  distinct  as  the  strokes  of  a  thresher's  flail.  "  That 
you  love  the  man  who  detests  you,"  he  added,  "  that  you 
love  me,  I  know.  And  I  have  avenged  St.  Marc,"  he  said 
then,  quite  in  his  ordinary  tone,  and  turning  on  his  heel  to 
go,  but  pausing  first,  as  if,  greedy  of  distress,  he  would  not 
lose  one  line,  one  shade  of  hers. 

"I?"  she  cried,  piercingly,  and  throwing  up  her  arms,  as 
if  to  ward  off  some  descending  blow — "  I  ?  Oh,  is  it  possi 
ble?  And  you?  Am  I  mad?" — in  a  choking  gasp.  "Tell 
me,  am  I  mad?"  Her  face  began  to  look  no  longer  like  a 
face,  but  like  a  dead  cloth  that  has  taken  the  impress  of  dead 
features  from  which  the  living  presence  has  fled.  "  Oh,  you 
have  broken  my  heart !"  she  cried. 

The  Baron  Rougegorge  breakfasted  and  dined  alone  for 
some  three  weeks  after  his  marriage.  To  say  that  he  experi 
enced  ennui  is  to  make  a  mild  statement  of  his  condition. 
Strange  to  tell,  in  planning  his  little  melodrama  of  breaking 
the  heart  of  a  woman,  he  had  never  carried  his  ideas  one 
moment  beyond  the  grand  coup — the  dealing  of  the  blow. 
Now  he  found  that  people  still  lived,  even  with  that  deli 
cate  organ  shattered,  and  practically  and  before  the  world  he 
had  a  wife  upon  his  hands. 

Somehow,  in  the  obscure  undercurrent  of  his  mind,  he 
was  not  entirely  willing  to  let  the  world  in  upon  the  truth  of 
his  late  transaction  ;  or  it  may  be  that,  being  a  modest  man, 
he  preferred  not  to  boast  over  his  victory.  He  had  a  stately 


ROUGEGORGE.  57 

way  of  keeping  up  the  appearances  of  affairs  as  they  should 
be  before  the  servants  themselves,  though  how  far  those 
astute  individuals  were  to  be  hoodwinked  is  a  matter  for  the 
philosophers.  And  thus  he  eked  out  his  feuilleton  in  the 
morning,  lounged  with  his  books  and  maps  and  portfolios  and 
.siestas  by  day,  took  his  exercise  by  night.  And,  meanwhile, 
both  Baron  and  Baroness  were  denied  to  all  guests,  and  by 
very  simple  means  the  Baron  began  to  discover  that,  if  he 
had  ruined  life  for  another,  he  had  not  created  any  great  por 
tion  of  bliss  for  himself.  Certainly  he  was  very  uncomfort 
able.  He  could  not  exactly  determine  on  a  future.  To 
throw  up  his  hand  and  quit  the  town — that  exposed  him  to 
the  jeers  of  old  comrades;  nor  was  he  sure  that  he  wished  to 
do  so.  To  remain — there,  in  fact,  the  Baroness  might  have  a 
word  to  say.  Perhaps  he  found  the  situation  piquant ;  at  any 
rate,  he  awaited  some  event.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  he  was 
the  least  trifle  ashamed  of  the  part  he  had  played.  It  is  pos 
sible  that  a  morsel  of  pity,  now  that  it  was  too  late,  weighed 
upon  him  as  he  remembered  the  smile  with  which  that 
woman  had  awakened,  the  woful  look  with  which  she  had 
fallen  back  among  her  pillows — the  smile  of  rosy  shyness,  the 
look  dazed  and  distraught  with  the  creeping  torture  of  shame 
and  horror.  He  was  disturbed,  indeed,  with  a  singular  sensa 
tion  for  a  Rougegorge — a  dim  and  misty  shadow  in  his  con 
sciousness,  the  mere  outline  of  a  thought — the  sensation  that 
he  had  been  a  knave.  But  with  all  that,  whenever,  through 
the  lonesome  day,  he  chanced  to  glance  up  at  the  portrait  of 
St.  Marc,  with  all  its  eager  brightness  gilding  it  like  a  trans 
figuring  atmosphere,  then  again  his  heart  would  rise  in  his 
throat  with  an  unchecked,  swift  gulp  of  satisfaction.  That 
woman  had  deprived  him  of  St.  Marc,  the  one  delight  and 


58  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

consolation  of  his  being,  his  summer  and  his  sunshine  ;  with 
whom  he  needed  nothing  else,  neither  wife  nor  child  ;  without 
whom —  She  had  stolen  him,  had  destroyed  him  ;  and  he  in 
turn  had  destroyed  her! 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  his 
honeymoon  that  the  Baron  sat  delaying  over  his  coffee  one 
morning,  now  and  then  reading  a  paragraph  of  his  paper, 
thinking  he  might  yet  turn  his  attention  to  politics — now  and 
then  pausing  to  examine  the  filmy  sheen  of  the  wings  of  a 
dragon-fly  that,  wandering  in  its  flight  from  some  palace  gar 
dens,  had  darted  in  at  the  open  window,  and  still  lingered, 
poised  upon  the  edge  of  a  crystal  carafe.  It  was  rather  a 
welcome- interruption  of  his  monotony.  He  fancied  himself 
becoming  a  naturalist  :  he  had  already  formed  the  friendship 
of  an  agreeable  spider  ;  and  he  laughed,  a  little  bitterly,  at 
himself,  remembering  other  prisoners  who  had  done  the 
same.  He  was  just  returning  to  his  article  on  the  "  Ancient 
Frontiers,"  after  a  microscopic  sort  of  examination  of  the 
dragon-fly's  complex  eyes,  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  ; 
there  was  a  soft  rustle,  and  Madame  the  Baroness  was 
announced. 

To  tell  you  the  real  truth,  he  was  for  one  instant  delighted 
to  see  her.  He  sprang  to  meet  her  by  his  natural  instinct  of 
courtesy.  Then,  recollecting  himself,  although  he  conducted 
her  to  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  it  was  without  so 
much  as  touching  her  hand,  and  with  a  behavior  that  was  not 
only  glazed  in  iciness,  but  was  ice  itself.  Then  he  resumed 
his  seat  and  refolded  his  paper,  while  with  a  motion  of  her 
hand  the  Baroness  dismissed  the  servant,  and  the  two  were 
alone  again,  save  for  the  dragon-fly  and  the  morning  breeze 
that  stole  in  and  fluttered  damask  and  drapery. 


ROUGEGORGE.  59 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  said  the  Baroness, 
upon  that — quoting,  perhaps  unconsciously,  his  own  words 
on  the  occasion  of  their  last  interview. 

The  paper  fell  from  the  Baron's  hands.  The  same  rip 
pling  music  as  ever  in  the  tones  that  thus  addressed  him  ; 
but  this  was  not  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  cried  out  that 
he  had  broken  her  heart.  A  single  hurried  glance  at  her,  and 
lie  stooped  to  regain  the  sheet.  It  was  not  the  same  woman. 
To  be  sure,  there  was  the  oval  of  the  cheek,  to  which  the 
rich  carnation  just  now  came  mantling;  there  were  the  eyes 
-as  velvet  soft  as  the  darkest  petals  of  a  pansy  are ;  there  was 
again  the  waving  shadow  of  that  heavy  and  perfumed  curl. 
But  no  longer  were  those  the  lips  loaded  with  kisses,  nor 
could  lips  ever  be  so  again  that  had  learned  to  feel  that  faint 
•constriction  now  wrinkling  around  them.  If  absent  at  this 
moment,  there  had  been  flame  behind  that  eye.  Was  it  the 
least  fine  trace  of  scorn  in  the  quiver  of  that  chiselled 
nostril  ? 

The  Baron  Rougegorge  could  not  in  that  instantaneous 
glance  gather  and  assimilate  the  whole  sense  of  what  he  saw 
— the  same  being,  yet  another.  He  had  come  once  in  his 
travels  upon  a  landscape  lying  in  the  sun  with  golden  dis 
tances  and  violet  hazes :  he  had  returned  to  that  landscape 
after  an  earthquake  had  disturbed  it,  ever  so  slightly,  and  it 
had  settled  down  again  as  of  old,  encrusting  its  central  fires. 

O  *-> 

It  was  unaccountably  to  himself  that  he  recalled  that  scene 
now,  with  the  one  black  fissure  seaming  all  its  sunlit  azure,  as 
he  gazed  at  his  wife.  In  effect,  there  was  something  as  pecu 
liarly  fearful  in  this  young  and  faultlessly  fair  creature — could 
he  but  have  detected  it — whose  bloom-bathed  flesh,  whose 
dissolving  outlines,  whose  fresh  and  dewy  color  and  sparkle 


60  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

were  all  but  the  mere  mask  of  youth  and  sweetness  above  a 
soul  from  which  the  wine  of  life  had  been  wrung — as  desic 
cated  and  juiceless  and  hard  as  substance  that  has  lain 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones.  In  future,  as  she 
moved  among  one  and'  another  again,  unless  her  artifice 
rivalled  the  power  of  Nature,  she  would  scarcely  be  as  allur 
ing  as  of  old  ;  there  might  be  a  dazzle  about  her,  a  cold 
glitter,  the  brilliancy  of  a  thousand  facets.  She  said  once 
that  that  was  because  she  had  been  cut  and  ground  upon 
the  adamant  of  Fate.  Until  her  marriage  day  she  had  been 
joyous,  careless,  conquering;  if  afterward  she  should  become 
a  diabolic  thing,  it  would  be  as  much  the  guilt  of  Rouge- 
gorge  as  her  own.  "  Why  not  ?  "  she  said.  "  In  these  three 
weeks  I  have  already  known  the  tortures  of  the  damned. 
There  can  be  nothing  worse." 

The  Baron,  however,  would  have  needed  to  be  as  pene 
trating  as  he  was  impetuous  to  have  imagined  the  beginning 
of  all  this.  He  only  saw  that  the  youthful  Baroness  had 
experienced  some  curious  and  intimate  change,  the  probable 
result  of  that  operation  known  as  breaking  the  heart — a  seal 
and  recognition  of  his  vengeance.  But  he  had  had  that  ven 
geance :  he  was  satisfied,  perchance  satiated  with  it;  and  he 
felt  no  longer  any  vivid  and  unbroken  animosity  toward  the 
lovely  lady  who  laid  her  white  hand  so  quietly  along  the 
table  and  repeated,  silverly:  "  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

"  I  shall  be  pleased  to  listen,  madame,"  responded  the 
Baron,  graciously. 

Looking  over  at  him,  she  smiled  an  unconcerned  and  dis 
engaged  smile,  such  as  she  might  give  to  the  bluebottle  buzz 
ing  in  the  window.  One  would  hardly  believe  how  muchi 


ROUGEGORGE.  6l 

that  simple  smile  annoyed  the  Baron,  such  are  the  inconsis 
tencies  and  contradictions  of  human  nature:  it  seemed  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  not  done  his  work  effectually.  But  if  he 
even  dreamed  that,  the  dream  was  presently  dissipated. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  with  gentleness,  "  I  am  not  come  to 
bandy  reproaches  with  you.  I  will  not  tell  you  that  you 
judged  me,  sentenced  me,  executed  me,  without  allowing  me 
a  defence ;  nor  that,  since  my  execution  has  taken  place,  a. 
disembodied  spirit  would  be  addressing  you  with  as  much 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  life.  Certainly,  if  it  is  a  ghost,  it  is 
one  that  came  out  of  hell,"  she  said,  in  a  slow,  reflective  way. 
"You  see,  monsieur,  that  I  am  frank  with  you.  I  do  not 
conceal  that  you  dealt  me  a  dreadful  doom.  It  was  dreadful 
indeed,"  with  a  shiver,  and  fastening  her  eyes  on  the  Baron  : 
"  did  you  ever  realize  how  dreadful?  You  outraged  me,  you 
robbed  me,  you  murdered  me  !  Well — I  am  not  crying  for 
mercy :  I  know  well  that  the  house  of  Rougegorge  has  none. 
Nor  can  I  say  a  word,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  flash  : 
"  neither  have  the  Valentinois !  As  for  me,  it  is  true  that  I 
loved,  I  trusted,  I  confided  :  I  will  not  take  from  you  a  tittle 
of  your  vengeance.  I  believed  my  bridegroom  was  nobility 
itself — was  manliness  and  courage  and  honor  impersonate." 
The  Baron  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  across  which  too 
much  of  the  warm  sunshine  fell.  "  He  was  an  ideal,"  con 
tinued  the  Baroness,  "  and  I  was  idolatrous.  It  is  something 
to  destroy  one's  husband,  but  what  punishment,"  she  cried, 
hotly,  "  is  sufficient  for  him  who  destroys  one's  god  ?  " 

The  ejaculation  of  Rougegorge  was  checked,  half  unut- 
tered,  by  her  gesture ;  and  directly  afterward  she  had 
resumed  as  calmly  as  before.  "  I  shall  not  speak  of  my 
shame,  either,"  she  murmured — "  of  the  mortification  I  have 


62  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

suffered  while  the  blush  seemed  burning  into  my  bones ;  nor 
of  my  loss.  I  was  reared  in  the  country,  in  a  home — I  am 
perhaps  sentimental,  but  such  a  home  was  always  in  my 
hopes — a  charming  home,  a  man  who  loved  me  and  whose 
happiness  I  was ;  dear  children.  Well,  all  that  you  have 
made  impossible,  you  see  ;  and,  more  than  all,  you  have 
taken  my  youth — youth,  love,  hope." 

The  Baron  rose  and  walked  across  the  room,  pacing  up 
and  down  its  length  in  a  somewhat  agitated  way.  "  Do  not 
think  that  I  am  imploring  you-  to  reconsider  what  is  done," 
she  said,  following  him  with  her  melancholy  eyes,  "to  give 
me  still  a  corner  in  your  affections  ;  for — listen,  monsieur — I 
no  longer  love  you  !  I  struggled  with  my  sick  heart,  I  over 
came  it  :  I  am  used  to  conquest,  you  know,"  with  another 
smile.  "  If  I  do  not  hate  you,  it  is  a  part  of  my  folly  and 
of  the  simplicity  that  mad-e  me  so  easily  your  dupe.  And, 
besides — I  am  too  old.  You  are  young  still,  a  young  French 
noble  with  a  career  opening  before  you  ;  but  I — I  came  into 
this  house  a  child  ;  now  my  hair  ought  to  be  gray.  I  have 
lived  in  this  month  a  longer  time  than  you  will  ever  live, 
monsieur — than  you  will  ever  live,"  she  repeated,  with  the 
sad  cadence  in  her  voice,  as  he  started  and  paused  in  his 
walk.  "  I  have  lived  and  died,"  she  breathed.  "  Yes,  yes, 
Ayacinthe  de  Valentinois  is  indeed  no  more.  The  Baroness 
Rougegorge  is  another  person.  Monsieur,"  she  continued 
in  a  moment,  which  seemed  an  hour  to  the  man  whom  she  so 
skilfully  arraigned,  and  during  which  he  had  retaken  his  seat 
opposite  her, — "  Monsieur,  fancying  we  might  hardly  care  to 
recur  to  this  subject  for  some  time  to  come,  and  feeling  it 
necessary  that  everything  should  be  clear  and  our  future 
relations  determined,  I  came  here  to  speak  with  you  this 


ROUGEGORGE.  63 

morning,  and  also  to  justify  myself,  if  that  might  be,  in  some 
measure.  I  do  not  mean  to  upbraid  you  that,  being  a  man, 
you  took  revenge  upon  a  woman  ;  nor  that,  being  a  nobleman, 
you  took  it  in  an  ignoble  manner  and  with  the  aid  of  a  false 
oath — 

"  I  will  hear  no  more  of  this!  "  cried  the  Baron,  springing 
to  his  feet.  She  did  not  raise  her  voice,  but  she  went  on, 
and  the  Baron  found  himself  compelled  to  hearken. 

"All  that  is  understood,  of.  course,"  she  said.  "But  I 
would  vindicate  myself  in  one  particular.  I  am  perhaps  a 
coquette.  Being  an  orphan  and  the  mistress  of  my  uncle's 
house,  I  have  had  more  freedom  than  many  have.  I  may 
have  deserved  some  rigors.  But  not  from  you  ;  for  of  the 
crime  of  which  you  accuse  me  and  for  which  you  destroyed 
me  I  am  innocent.  Monsieur  St.  Marc  asked  my  uncle  for 
my  hand,  and  was  refused  by  him  so  contemptuously  as  to 
annihilate  hope.  I  never  knew  it  till,  learning  by  accident 
that  you  were  usually  absent  at  a  late  hour,  I  sent  for  my 
uncle  to  see  me,  and  then  discovered  it,  but  without  betray 
ing  you.  Had  St.  Marc  spoken  to  me,  I  should  assuredly 
have  taught  him  his  rashness  more  kindly  and  have  left  him 
with  something  to  live  for.  Had  you  taken  one  step  in  that 
investigation  which  should  be  made  where  life  is  the  penalty, 
you  would  have  blundered  less  blindly.  You  might  have 
challenged  the  old  soldier,  who  would  not  have  refused  to 
whet  his  sword  on  your  vengeance.  So,  Baron  Rougegorge," 
said  the  lady,  rising,  and  leaning  only  her  finger-tips  on  the 
table,  "  I  do  not  say  that  I  despise  you,  but  you  have  done  a 
pitiful  piece  of  work  for  nothing.  For  nothing?  You  have 
paid  the  price  of  your  freedom!  Now  that  I  am  your  wife, 
monsieur,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  me?" 


64  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

She  was  assuredly  more  beautiful  now  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her,  as  she  stood,  during  the  last  sentence  of  her  extra 
ordinary  harangue,  with  the  flushes  of  a  proud  indignation 
sweeping  over  her.  But  he  was  only  sentient  of  the  fact — 
not  distinctly  conscious  of  that  or  of  anything  else.  He  was 
tingling  with  a  species  of  humiliation  from  head  to  foot,  and 
by  an  antagonistic  necessity  he  must  assume  a  brazen  front. 

"  Madame,"  he  replied,  "  I  do  not  intend  to  ask  you  to 
forgive  me." 

"  As  you  please,"  she  said,  lightly. 

"  We  both  have  perhaps  been  unwise,"  began  the  Baron — 
"  you,  in  speaking  with  vehemence  ;  I,  in  acting  precipitately. 
Since,  then,  we  have  ruined  life  for  each  other — 

"  We  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  smothered  tone — "  we  !  " 

"  We  have  only  to  endure  the  remnant  together,"  he  said, 
without  noticing  the  brief  outbreak.  "  As  for  the  world,  our 
secret  is  our  own." 

"  Our  secret  is  our  own,"  she  said,  her  head  drooping  for 
ward  on  her  breast  a  little. 

"  You  are  a  Baroness  Rougegorge,  my  wife,  and  the  head 
of  my  establishment.  Make  it  all  it  should  be.  I  will  not 
weary  you  with  too  much  of  my  society.  Meanwhile,  we 
will  issue  the  cards  for  our  first  dinner.  Have  you  any 
names  for  my  list  ?  " 

Perhaps  the  Baron  would  be  able  to  carry  this  high  hand 
triumphantly  to  the  close. 

The  newly-married  pair  swept  out  again  on  the  full  tide 
of  the  world  after  having  arrived  at  this  understanding.  Ac 
cording  to  the  part  which  he  had  ordained  himself  to  fill  for 
a  limited  time,  the  Baron  was  seen  in  constant  attendance 
upon  his  bride — at  operas,  at  balls,  sometimes  in  her  carriage. 


ROUGEGORGE.  65 

Men  envied  him  his  felicity;  women  envied  her  her  dia 
monds.  One  person  even  reported  that  he  had  seen  the 
romantic  creatures  wandering  through  the  flower-market 
together  at  sunrise  ;  but  then  nobody  believed  him.  Nobody 
believed  him  ;  yet,  nevertheless,  it  was  true.  The  Baroness, 
in  throwing  open  her  house,  had  sportively  declared  that  it 
was  patent  it  had  been  a  haunt  of  bachelors  and  cigarettes, 
for  the  conservatory  was  a  desert,  with  neither  moss,  nor  vine, 
nor  blossom  unwithered  by  gas  and  smoke  and  the  exhala 
tions  of  absinthe  ;  and  she  gayly  proceeded  to  refurnish  the 
little  dominion  with  all  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  plants  which 
the  first  blush  of  morning  might  find  exposed  along  the 
stalls,  till  its  new  wealth  fairly  overflowed  into  the  adjacent 
rooms.  Rehearsing  her  adventures  one  day  to  the  guests  at 
her  breakfast-table,  they  had  a  little  sunrise  party  on  the  next 
to  visit  the  place  and  behold  what  they  never  had  seen  be 
fore  ;  and  on  another  morning  the  Baron  dismissed  the 
groom,  upon  her  invitation,  and  went  with  her  himself. 

"  It  is  an  imposition  upon  the  good-nature  of  one  who 
does  not  care  for  flowers,"  she  said,  as  he  handed  her  down 
some  steps — "  as  if  the  martyr  should  pile  his  own  fagots." 
She  was  buying  hyacinths  that  morning — blue,  and  blush- 
colored,  and  golden,  white  as  a  lily,  single  as  a  jasmine,  double 
as  a  rose,  purpler  than  nightshade  ;  and  the  dark,  mysterious 
bulbs  without  number.  "They  are  my 'patron  saints,  you 
know,"  she  said,  laughingly!  "  My  mother  named  me  from 
the  stem  of  flowers  my  father  gave  her  when  he  saw  her  first ; 
so  I  surround  myself  with  them  by  right.  And  I  am  starved 
for  them,  since  my  uncle  would  not  have  them  in  the  house. 
Moreover,  it  is  a  charming  little  drama — the  planting  of  the 
bulb,  the  shooting  of  the  first  spire,  the  wonder  and  conjee- 


66  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

ture  concerning  the  final  flower.  One  would  content  me  were 
I  in  a  prison  cell.  Ah,  I  am  never  in  the  future  without 
hyacinths !  " 

After  that  there  were  birds  to  be  had — canaries,  a  blind 
greenfinch,  a  nightingale.  "  Sha-11  my  name  be  Rougegorge 
and  I  not  have  a  red-breast  under  my  eaves?"  she  cried,  in 
that  new  and  joyous  manner  of  hers  that  seemed  as  natural 
and  as  unvaried  as  her  breath,  but  which  yet  made  the  Baron, 
remembering  what  he  did,  pause  and  turn  more  than  once  to 
look  at  her,  as  if  she  were  a  sphinx.  "  It  is  the  crest  of  the 
house,  is  it  not?"  she  said.  "Those  ancient  barons  never 
could  have  been  but  gentlemen  of  the  road,  and  Rougegorge 
the  noble  for  cut-throat."  And  she  tossed  the  lory  on  her 
wrist,  and  sent  it  sailing  and  screaming  over  to  its  perch  on  a 
bust  of  Hecate.  In  fact,  with  her  pets  and  her  flowers,  she 
enchanted  the  whole  place;  and  the  Baron  himself,  who  had 
but  slight  horticultural  tastes,  confessed,  when  all  was  done,, 
that  this  gush  of  bird-song,  these  brilliant  blossoms,  these 
clambering  vines  and  myrtles,  these  hanging  baskets  of 
orchids  with  the  sunshine  making  their  gorgeous  tissues  look 
like  living  flame,  and  with  the  long-tailed  paroquets  clinging 
to  them,  as  gorgeous  as  themselves — all  gave  his  house  a 
charming  sort  of  radiance,  a  warm,  gay  atmosphere,  that  told 
one,  on  entrance  there,  that  here  a  woman  held  her  court> 
admired  and  sovereign. 

For,  if  Ayacinthe  de  Valentinois  had  ever  ruled  a  pro 
vince,  this  woman's  sway  was  imperial.  Her  artifice  did,  in 
deed,  rival  Nature — her  gladsomeness  was  like  the  pine 
upgushing  of  a  sunny  identity.  It  was  varied  with  now  and 
then  a  melancholy  moment,  with  now  and  then  a  swift 
passion  of  anger.  All  seemed  the  unforced  freedom  of  a 


R  O  U  G  E  G  O  R  G  E  .  67 

child  of  Nature.  She  enslaved  the  hearts  and  souls  of  men  -r 
her  salon  was  a  region  of  delight  ;  she  herself  was  feted  and 
followed  after ;  and  wherever  she  went  she  dragged  captives 
in  her  chain — these  vanquished  by  her  wit,  those  by  her 
sweetness.  Apparently  she  enjoyed  her  life  to  the  lees  of  it 
— none  better.  Sometimes  her  voice  bubbled  up,  as  she 
passed  from  room  to  room  of  her  own  abode,  in  an  irrepres 
sible  warble;  sometimes,  as  if  too  trivial  to  remember  long 
any  bitterness  that  she  could  forget,  she  would  even  shed  a 
smile  upon  the  Baron,  disturbing  his  stately  quiet  with  a 
capricious  kindness.  All  the  time,  with  her  gay  extrava 
gances,  her  happy  sallies,  her  sunbursts  of  smiles,  she  seemed 
to  fairly  sparkle.  All  this  puzzled  the  Baron  at  first,  excitect 
his  attention,  and  he  could  not  escape  from  the  perplexity  it 
occasioned  him ;  and  when  one  day,  upon  entering,  he  saw 
the  Archduke  Max  sitting  by  her  side,  an  old  field-marshal,, 
whose  gray  locks  lay  along  his  shoulders,  kissing  her  hand 
in  departure,  and  a  younger  Lothario  securing  the  rose  that 
had  fallen  from  her  breast-knot  to  the  floor,  then  he  was 
enraged  with  himself  to  find  that,  instead  of  being  any  longer 
puzzled  by  her  inexplicable  joyousness  and  heedless  accept 
ance  of  her  misfortunes,  he  was  exceedingly  displeased  with 
this  scene — discomposed,  annoyed,  oppressed.  He  sat  down 
presently  with  a  feeling  as  if  he  had  heard  some  ill  news,  but 
could  not  remember  what  it  was.  The  Baroness  saw  his  dis 
turbance,  as  a  quick  color  hung  out  its  treacherous  signal  on 
her  cheek  to  testify ;  while  over  her  face  gathered  the  smile 
out  of  which  a  sudden  look  leaped,  like  a  deadly  creature 
from  its  lair.  "Ah,  monsieur,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  su-r- 
veyed  him,  "  the  philter  begins  to  work — presently  the  incan 
tation."  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind  which  she  said  to  him,. 


68  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

though,  when  happening  by.  and  by  to  pause  for  one  lingering 
instant  at  his  side,  and  forgetting  her  glove  upon  the  table 
near  at  hand.  It  would  be  hard  for  one  to  say  what  idleness 
it  was  that  made  him  lay  his  hand  upon  that  glove  and 
gather  it  into  his  palm  and  hide  it  away  like  a  trea 
sure. 

He  did  not  find  opportunity  to  speak  with  her  till  some 
days  thereafter,  when  she  sought  him  in  crossing  a  hall,  and 
said  simply  that  she  regretted  she  had  not  known  that  the 
alcoved  apartment  was  a  favorite  one  of  his,  since  he  might 
have  resumed  the  use  of  it  so  much  earlier,  as  she  had  long 
ago  vacated  it  for  one  in  the  opposite  wing,  where  the  sun 
shine  did  not  trouble  her  at  so  early  an  hour  of  the  dawn. 
"  It  must  have  pleasanter  remembrances  for  you,  monsieur, 
than  it  has  for  me,"  she  said,  with  a  strain  of  pathos  in  her 
voice. 

The  sunshine  was  falling  then  where  she  stood  on  the 
Egyptian  marble  of  the  hall,  making,  with  its  reflection  in 
the  shining  floor,  a  halo  of  separation  around  her;  a  flitting 
•damask  stained  her  cheek  and  stayed  there  ;  her  downcast 
•eyes  shed  a  shadow  round  them  ;  her  half- parted  lips  seemed 
trembling  as  she  spoke.  The  Baron  was  mad  at  that 
moment.  "  It  can  be  no  memory  but  a  bitter  one  for  me  !  " 
he  cried,  and  seized  her  hand  and  would  have  raised  it  to 
his  lips. 

"Alas,  monsieur!"  she  murmured,  sadly,  "  such  compli 
ments  are  unnecessary  between  you  and  me,"  and  then  was 
gone  again. 

When  the  Baron,  installed  himself  in  his  former  apart 
ments  once  more,  it  was  with  a  singular  desire  and  dislike  to 
do  so.  It  struck  him  a  little  oddly  at  first  that  the  gaunt 


ROUGEGORGE.  69 

bloodhound,  who  had  been  wont  to  stretch  himself  at  ease 
there  in  the  old  days  before  the  Baron  took  destiny  into  his 
own  hands,  now  absolutely  refused  to  cross  the  threshold,  but 
lay  with  his  nose  along  the  sill,  giving  forth  such  dismal 
howls  that  he  had  to  be  taken  down  and  chained  in  his 
kennel.  The  Baron  forgot  about  it  shortly  in  noting  the 
aspect  of  the  place,  familiar  yet  unfamiliar  ;  for  the  Baroness 
could  not  have  dwelt  there  what  time  she  did  and  not  have 
left  some  trace  of  her  loveliness  behind  her;  and  here  a 
shutter  that  had  not  been  unbarred  for  the  lifetime  of  a 
generation  slurred  a  new  light  across  the  ancient  panel- 
painting  of  an  avenging  Dian  and  her  dogs,  and  there  a 
windowful  of  sunbeams  nestled  around  the  blossoming  plants 
that  she  had  suffered  to  remain  there — remain  perhaps  as 
mementos  of  herself.  He  sat  down  beneath  them,  and  for 
a  time  drew  in  deep  breaths  of  their  satisfying  sweetness ; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  shadow  in  flying  from  the 
place,  bleak  though  December  whistled  without,  had  left 
only  summer  within. 

Events  moved  quickly  for  the  Baron  Rougegorge  now. 
He  had  forgotten  St.  Marc,  and  sometimes,  when  accident 
led  his  eyes  to  the  portrait,  he  found  himself  looking  on  it 
only  with  a  shudder.  No  Rougegorge  had  ever  bent  aside 
from  a  purpose,  yet  the  fire  and  impulse  that  had  propelled 
this  one  to  his  revenge  lasted  barely  to  its  consummation, 
and  then  there  had  been  a  vicious  struggle  which  made  that 
issue  cost  him  some  drops  of  his  heart's  blood.  Now  hatred 
had  died  in  him,  and  half  his  being  with  it,  one  might  say ; 
pity  had  surprised  him  ;  wonder  and  perplexity  had  awa 
kened  scrutiny  that  became  pleasure  ;  and  then  Regret,  a 
dark-robed  shadow,  had  laid  her  finger  on  his  heart  and  bade 


70  I'  A  P  Y  R  U  S      L  K  A  V  E  S  . 

him  follow  her.  He  followed,  but  looked  still  behind,  for 
down  that  other  way — 

The  Baron  indeed  was  in  a  strangely  fevered  condition  at 
this  point.  A  thousand  emotions  tore  him,  as  his  own 
hounds  tore  Actaeon.  He  had  reached  that  period  where  he 
could  not  live  without  the  music  of  this  woman's  voice,  yet 
he  heard  it  only  addressed  to  others  ;  he  needed  the  sym 
pathy  of  her  thoughts,  yet  doubted  and  disbelieved  their 
expression ;  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  live  alone  with  her, 
yet  he  could  not  endure  to  see  another  approach  her ;  she  was 
his,  yet  only  by  a  fiction  of  law  ;  he  was  as  indifferent  to  her, 
he  declared  to  himself,  as  the  wind  is  to  the  rose  it  rifles,  yet 
he  knew  that  his  Avhole  nature  was  corroded  by  jealousy. 

It  was  perhaps  the  mood  induced  by  all  these  attractions 
and  repulsions,  desires  and  denials,  that  caused  him  one 
night,  as  the  doors  closed  behind  the  last  guest  of  their 
grand  ball,  where  the  young  hostess,  beaming  on  all  who 
drew  near,  had  danced  almost  as  wildly  as  a  Maenad,  sweep 
ing  along  like  a  meteor  in  the  flash  of  her  jewels,  her  gauzes, 
her  blushes,  her  glances,  and  shining  on  him  only  from  the 
arms  of  other  men — caused  him  to  accost  her,  as  she  delayed 
one  second  gathering  up  her  drapery,  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
staircase.  "Madame,"  he  said  hoarsely,  just  beside  her, 
"do  you  remember  tint  you  have  my  honor  in  your 
keeping  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  she  answered  him  in  the  gay  malice  which 
the  subsiding  spirit  of  the  revel  lent  her,  "  do  you  remember 
that  you  put  it  there?  "  But  with  an  after-thought  she  lifted 
her  head  haughtily.  "  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  not  guard  it 
more  carefully  than  you  yourself  have  done,"  she  said  ;  add 
ing  softly  in  a  moment,  "  Monsieur,  you  forget  that  ycur 


ROUGEGORGE.  ?I 

honor  is  my  own."  And  she  went  softly  up  the  stairs,  the 
long  train  of  frosty  lace  and  rosy  silk  creeping  serpent-like 
behind  her,  as  regardlessly  as  though,  instead  of  a  living 
being,  the  Baron  were  nothing  more  than  the  bronze  effigy 
of  an  ancestor. 

He  stood  as  motionless  there  for  a  long  time  as   though 

o  o 

indeed  he  had  been  cast  in  metal,  and  gazing  at  the  place 
where  she  had  vanished,  while  the  light  of  dawn  came 
stealing  silently  in  around  him.  And  during  all  that  time 
the  Baroness  Rougegorge  herself  was  standing  as  motionless, 
leaning  before  an  antique  mirror  that  for  more  than  a  century 
had  reflected  the  proud  ladies  who  had  continued  the  line  she 
— extinguished.  So  some  witch  might  have  incanted  her 
familiar,  for  it  was  a  sort  of  demoniac  beauty  gleaming  back 
at  her  from  the  depths  of  the  mirror  into  which  she  gazed. 
The  wreathing  smiles,  the  bloom,  the  blush  were  gone  ;  the 
sweetness  had  been  stripped  off  like  a  mist  ,  only  the  eyes, 
fierce,  fatal  eyes,  blazed  from  the  shadowy  sphere  as  if  they 
but  gathered  the  rest  of  that  white  and  cruel  face  about  them 
that  they  might  themselves  be  visible.  "  Thou  art  the  only 
friend  I  have,"  said  the  Baroness  to  this  familiar.  "  Do  not 
fail  me!  "  And  then,  as  she  gazed,  her  heart  began  to  beat 
against  her  side  like  a  bird  against  its  cage,  and  the  familiar 
smiled  upon  her  a  wicked,  splendid,  and  triumphant  smile, 
that  promised  and  performed  at  once. 

Had  some  Asmodeus  of  the  household  but  disclosed  that 
little  scene  to  him,  the  Baron  might  have  inhaled  less 
ardently  the  perfumes  that  swept  out  to  meet  him  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  his  own  apartment — that  curled  swath- 
ingly  around  him  in  welcome  as  he  lifted  the  curtain  of  the 
alcove  and  saw  the  early  daylight  welling  through  the  leaves 


72  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

and  blossoms  that  veiled  the  great  rose-window  of  the  place 
which  once  had  been  an  oratory,  and  now  was  only  an 
oubliette.  As  .it  was,  he  lay  with  open  eyes,  watching  the 
first  sunbeam  come  staining  a  white  petal  into  fire,  exalting  a 
crimson  one  to  airy  ruby,  filtering  a  purple  into  pure  azure, 
intoxicating  himself  with  the  rich  odors  that  always  there 
replaced  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air,  the  dewiness  of  the 
evening  breeze;  until  at  last  he  fell  into  a  brief,  uneasy 
drowse,  in  which  the  needle  of  the  great  dragon-fly  that  the 
Baroness  had  captured  from  the  carafe  on  the  morning  of  her 
reappearance,  and 'had  transfixed  here  upon  the  wall,  seemed 
to  be  piercing  his  brain. 

There  had  been  a  change  lately  in  the  appearance  of  the 
Baron — gradual  and  slight  perhaps  to  all  but  a  single  pair  of 
eager  eyes.  If  one  had  looked  at  him  as  he  lay  in  his  trou 
bled  dream,  it  would  have  been  as  apparent  as  Death's 
imprint.  A  deceitful  hectic  illumined  his  countenance  at 
other  times,  yet  even  then,  whenever  he  moved,  all  strength 
seemed  to  have  left  his.  lagging  gait,  and  he  scarcely  held 
himself  erect.  The  Baron  was  far  from  well,  in  fact.  He 
measured  his  own  pulse  and  believed  himself  fevered  by  his 
folly,  and  said  that  his  disease,  if  such  it  were,  was  not  one 
that  medicine  could  minister  to.  A  strange  lassitude  weighed 
him  down,  mind  as  well  as  body;  ambition  seemed  an  idle 
word  ;  the  grasshopper  had  become  a  burden  ;  evil  dreams 
pursued  him  till  he  ceased  to  sleep  at  all ;  he  lived  only  upon 
stimulants,  which  did  but  feed  the  internal  heat ;  and  lately 
the  unfelt  luxury  of  the  breath  had  grown  to  be  a  pain  when 
now  and  then  there  followed  with  it  a  sharp  agony  in  the 
side,  that  made  it  seem  to  him  as  if  the  earth  might  feel  the 
same  when  some  branching  thing  were  torn  up  by  the  roots. 


ROUGEGORGE  73 

All  this,  however,  made  but  slight  difference  in  his  going  and 
coming,  for  there  is  a  season  when  absorption  in  another 
causes  one  to  forget  one's  self;  and  wherever  the  Baroness, 
appeared,  there,  by  fell  sorcery,  sooner  or  later  was  the 
Baron  drawn. 

And  who,  indeed,  could  have  helped  it  ?  Who  could  have 
resisted  that  charm,  that  summery  warmth  of  manner,  that 
spontaneous  kindliness  given  to  him  as  to  all — sometimes  to 
him  more  than  to  all  ?  To-day  she  shone  upon  him  in  sweet 
forgetfulness :  to-morrow  a  fitful  memory  chilled  her  and 
kept  him  on  the  alert ;  and  always,  when  she  passed,  the 
faint  rose  deepening  into  damask  on  her  cheek,  the  dimples 
creeping  into  smiles  around  her  month,  the  dark  eyes  glowing 
softly  from  the  shadows  of  those  heavy  rings  of  fragrant  hair 
that  floated  about  them,  a  pride  of  possession  thrilled  him — 
thrilled  him  and  angered  him,  and  set  his  heart  on  fire. 

One  night  the  Baroness  was  standing  with  the  Abbe  Mar- 
forio  opposite  a  new  picture  of  Judith,  where  the  artist  had 
painted  according  to  modern  ideas  of  interpretation,  and  had 
terribly  wrought  out  the  wrestling  love  and  sacrifice. 

"  A  tremendous  thing,"  said  the  Abbe. 

"In  paints  and  pigments,"  replied  the  Baroness.  "But 
for  the  rest,  it  is  false." 

"  How  is  that?     You  join  issue?"  he  asked. 

"  For  the  sake  of  womanhood  only,"  she  responded,  with 
more  earnestness  than  she  usually  employed  in  speech. 
"Can  love  of  country  outweigh  all  other  love?  But  a 
woman  has  no  country.  Her  country  is  her  lover.  Will 
she  abandon  him  for  the  sake  of  other  women's  lovers? 
This  Judith  has  slain  one  to  save  the  others.  But  the  action 
is  simply  impossible  to  the  woman  loving  as  she  does.  Slay 


74  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

him?  She  will  rather  slay  herself!  She  lives  for  him,  she  is 
his,  both  soul  and  body — she  gives  him  her  present,  she 
pledges  him  her  eternity!" 

"  Ah  !  with  her  whole  being  in  one  emotion.  That  is  the 
way  such  a  woman  loves?" 

"And  hates,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  covering  her 
earnestness  with  her  radiant  smile  again. 

"  Ah,  madame,"  said  the  Abbe,  pleasantly,  "  it  is  the 
liappy  wife  that  speaks.  Rougegorge,"  for  the  Baron  was 
•dallying  in  the  neighborhood  while  he  bent  over  the  chair  of 
another  lady — "  Rougegorge,  you  are  a  fortunate  fellow  !  " 

"  A  fortunate  fellow,"  repeated  the  Baron,  lifting  his  head, 
and  only  his  wife  knew  the  bitterness  hidden  in  the  tone. 
*'  And  I  have  thrown  away — great  Heavens!  " — it  said,  "  a 
love  like  that ! " 

That  night  was  the  same  night  with  one  of  the  workmen's 
riots  which  occasionally  break  out  in  Paris  like  lurking  scro 
fula  in  the  system  ;  and  it  was  just  as  the  Baroness  was 
driving  out  of  the  courtyard  that  a  large  mob  of  reckless 
wretches  emptied  into  the  street,  their  torches  and  their  wild 
cries  terrifying  her  horses,  who  began  to  prance  in  the  tossing 
light  which  glittered  on  all  their  costly  caparison.  Instantly 
the  carriage-lamps,  the  golden  bits,  the  leaping  horses  caught 
the  eye  of  the  mob,  and  as  instantly  afterward  the  beautiful 
aristocrat,  who  had  thrown  open  her  carriage-door  and  stood 
hesitating  whether  to  spring ;  and  a  paving-stone  flew 
through  the  air,  grazing  her  forehead,  and  felling  her  upon 
the  spot.  Not  more  instantly,  though,  than  a  form  had 
started  out  of  the  darkness  with  a  command  to  the  cowering 
servants,  and,  gathering  a  residue  of  strength,  had  caught  her 
and  flung  himself  with  her  into  the  coach,  which  wheeled 


ROUGEGORGE.  75 

about  and  was  beyond  the  reach  of  all  assailants  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell  it.  And  yet  too  swiftly  for  the  Barori, 
who  saw  her,  by  the  light  of  the  street-lamps  that  flashed  in 
upon  them  as  they  dashed  along,  lying  white  across  his 
breast — who,  unforbidden  then,  was  covering  her  lips,  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes  with  passionate  kisses.  Moment  of  wild 
stolen  rapture,  let  him  have  it  :  he  would  never  know 
another!  Her  eyes  slowly  opened,  and  he  looked  into  them 
as  he  might  have  looked  upon  two  great  drops  of  frozen  ink 
— a  stare  of  utter  scorn,  an  icy  blank. 

The  Baroness  was  well  enough  next  day;  she  was  perhaps 
a  trifle  paler,  though  her  slight  wound  was  hidden  by  her 
hair,  and  she  remained  at  home.  But  the  Baron  was  worse. 
The  moment  of  rapture  and  of  pain,  the  succeeding  moment 
of  unmixed  anguish,  like  an  electric  shock  had  aroused  him 
to  a  truth  he  had  feared  to  look  upon — to  the  fact  that,  at 
last  and  after  all,  he  loved  with  infinite  yearning  one  as 
insensate  as  a  star. 

Baron  Rougegorge  was  ill.  As  he  entered  his  apartment 
that  night,  the  pungent  air  of  the  hyacinths,  wantoning 
through  all  the  spacious  suite,  seemed  to  rasp  like  a  black 
frost,  and  presently  a  sudden  surge  of  blood  had  overflowed 
his  mouth.  Since  the  Baroness  remained  at  home,  he  him 
self  no  longer  went  out.  A  deadly  physical  reaction  had 
followed  upon  his  late  exertion,  and  he  lay  much  of  the  time 
in  his  alcoved  bed-chamber,  soothed  by  the  odors  of  his 
hyacinths,  that  resumed  their  snake-like  fascination — growing 
every  day  more  languid  and  listless,  his  heart  stirring  to 
suffocation  when  a  lifting  curtain,  an  opening  or  closing  door, 
gave  him  the  sound  of  her  voice.  The  frequenters  of  the 
house  had  long  since  noticed  a  change  in  him — the  spare 


76  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

hand,  the  hollow  temple,  the  quick  breath.  The,  Baroness 
herself  had  summoned  his  physician,  who,  with  a  glance,  had 
ordered  him  away  from  Paris  into  purer  air.  "  The  trouble  is 
malarial,"  said  the  man  of  science;  "a  change  is  all  we 
need."  But  the  Baron  rejected  the  advice  and  remained  at 
home.  "  As  well  die  by  the  sword  as  the  famine,"  said  he, 
and  clung  to  his  calamity  like  a  limpet  to  its  rock.  Then, 
when  the  Court  began  to  concern  itself  with  the  Baron's 
health,  his  physician,  vexed  with  an  inscrutable  difficulty  to 
which  symptoms  afforded  no  clew,  prescribed  a  chaos  of  reme 
dies  together  ;  and  at  last,  looking  about  him  in  his  bewilder 
ment,  ordered  such  a  wilderness  of  flowers  to  be  removed 
from  his  sleeping-room.  "  There  is  no  oxygen  left  for  you," 
he  exclaimed.  "  No  wonder  that  you  are  shrinking  into  an 
anatomy.  Toss  them  into  the  street  !  "  This  the  Baron 
refused  to  do.  "  He  is  an  insane  man!  "  cried  the  physician. 
Then  the  Baron  dismissed  the  physician. 

Rougegorge  had  grown  singularly  fond  of  those  hya 
cinths.  He  knew  well  that  they  would  never  blossom  so 
richly  without  the  attending  and  replacing  hand  of  her  who 
first  planted  them  ;  he  was  sure  he  should  surprise  her  some 
day  bending  over  them  ;  he  grew  envious  of  them,  as  if  they 
were  living  things. 

o  o 

And  indeed  they  seemed  to  grow  like  living  things,  with 
their  fresh,  sharp  spikes  of  flowers,  making  the  room  splendid 
with  their  color  and  its  air  heavy  with  their  breath.  A  light 
frame  hung  on  high  in  the  great  rose-window,  knotted  in  a 
hundred  intricate  windings  of  the  lithe  bamboo,  and  in  every 
loop  a  bulb  was  set,  its  leaf  springing  up  rankly  to  the  light,. 
and  the  whole  reticulation  of  blossoms  swung  there  like  a 
brilliant  bubble  in  the  sun  ;  while  in  the  outer  room  the  deep- 


ROUGEGORGE.  '77 

windows  seemed  stained  in  vivid  hues  where,  lined  with  these 
translucent  stems,  they  let  the  daylight  fall  through  them 
only  in  gold  and  amethyst  and  emerald.  And  every  hyacinth 
among  them  all  seemed  to  dart  toward  the  light  with  swift 
purpose,  to  bristle  with  'eager  life  of  its  own,  to  toss  off  its 
cloud  of  oppressive  perfume  and  suck  in  the  unsoiled  air,  to 
throw  it  back  again  in  poison.  Now  and  then,  when  the 
Baron  found  himself  light-headed  for  a  moment,  he  fancied 
that  he  saw  tiny  images,  fierce  faces,  wicked  eyes,  and  point 
ing  fingers — once  a  bat's  wing,  again  a  dragon's  claw — clus 
tering  round  every  bract  and  blossom.  Then  he  would  smile 
at  himself,  seeing  the  loveliness  of  some  cream-thick  petal, 
the  precision  of  one  constantly-recurring  curve,  to  think  his 
sick  fancies  could  have  conjured  up  anything  freakish  or 
venomous  in  things  whose  every  vein  was  subject  to  the  pure 
law  of  beauty.  Nevertheless,  when  any  draught  brought  to 
him  a  stronger  waft  of  their  scent,  a  gust  of  cloying  incense, 
his  head  began  to  swim  as  dizzily  as  though  he  had  been 
breathing  the  noxious  vapor  of  a  miasma  -,  ye*t  other  air 
seemed  barren  and  dead  to  him,  and  after  any  absence  in  the 
salon  where  the  Baroness  entertained  her  guests,  or  a  loiter 
ing  stroll  through  gallery  and  billiard-room,  he  sought  again 
the  stimulating  deliciousness  of  this,  which  the  hyacinths 
distilled  from  vases  on  the  tripods,  from  shells  upon  the 
brackets,  from  a  bed  of  moss  that  covered  the  table  beside 
his  couch,  where  they  overtopped  the  innocent  ferns  and 
maiden-hair  that  had  been  planted  with  them,  and  seemed  to 
gather  courage  and  strength  from  their  multitude.  "  They 
are  her  namesakes,"  said  the  infatuated  man,  and  he  went 
and  bent  over  them,  himself  trying  idly  if  he  could  detect 
the  fabled  characters  written  on  their  leaves  and  syllabic 


78  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

them  into  any  exclamation  of  his  own  sorrow.  One  day,  as 
he  stood  over  them,  leaning  more  and  more  heavily  upon  his 
staff — for  he  seemed  now  to  have  lived  his  life  and  to  have 
become  an  old  man  already  doting — he  reeled  and  fell 
senseless  to  the  floor,  his  brain  at  length  stupefied  with  their 
fumes. 

When  the  Baron  RougeGforge  regained  such  consciousness 

o     o        o  o 

as  the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  steaming  with  sweetness, 
allowed  him,  the  Baroness  was  standing  beside  him,  offering 
him  no  help,  but  looking  down  upon  him  with  a  fixed  quiet. 
•  There  was  something  peculiar  about  her.  It  was  not  the 
Ayacinthe  de  Valentinois  whose  heart  he  had  broken,  nor  yet 
the  woman  who  had  taken  the  dragon-fly  from  the  carafe  and 
pinned  it  to  the  wall ;  but  rather,  in  woman's  shape,  a  beauti 
ful  fiend  filled  with  satisfaction  over  some  evil  fruition.  Dark 
yet  lustrous,  and  lovely  in  tempting  flesh,  she  stood  just 
above  him,  and  he  lifted  an  imploring  hand  that  fell  back 
ungrasped  and  powerless. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  dying?"  she  said. 

It  had  never  entered  his  thoughts.  Instantaneously  with 
her  words  the  whole  pitiful  drama  flashed  before  him.  Then 
the  rich  and  heavy  air  seemed  suddenly  corrupt  with  foul 
ness  ;  he  would  have  given  the  universe  for  one  gasp  of  the 
fresh  breeze  playing  without  the  lattice  ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  courage  of  all  the  Rougegorges  came  back  to 
blaze  in  him  with  a  final  flash  of  the  expiring  race.  He 
looked  up  at  her  and  never  asked  for  quarter. 

"  It  was  in  this  room  that  you  dealt  me  my  doom,"  she 
said  then,  gazing  absently  about  her.  "  I  recall  it  well — the 
purple  shadow,  the  moonbeams  through  that  window  full  of 
hyacinths,  your  pitiless  face.  It  is  in  this  room  that  I  have 


ROUGEGORGE.  79 

destroyed  you.  I  pinned  that  fly  to  the  wall  that  I  might 
remember  that  so  you  had  transfixed  me  upon  your 
purpose — remember  to  have  no  mercy  upon  you.  These 
flowers  that  you  worship,  regard  them.  They  are  all  the 
subtle  spirits  of  death,  each  one  of  them  an  agent  of  mine 
and  of  destruction,  slaves  doing  my  bidding,  tiny  devils  clog 
ging  pore  and  duct,  poisoning  your  breath  and  your  blood, 
till,  though  you  live  this  hour,  the  next  you  shall  be  a  mass 
of  mere  decay.  You  have  thought  the  atmosphere  here  was 
fragrance  ?  It  is  the  air  of  a  charnel-house.  Presently  you 
will  be  dead,  and  all  your  lineage  with  you  ;  the  name  of 
Rougegorge  is  known  no  more — its  honor  and  its  valor  gone 
for  nothing,  since  you  transmit  to  no  one  the  memory  of  a 
noble  deed.  Once  there  was  a  Rougegorge  who  flung  him 
self  between  death  and  his  king,  and  the  ballads  sing  of  him 
to-day;  once  there  was  a  Rougegorge  who  died  in  a  dungeon 
sooner  than  betray  his  queen,  and  his  statue  stands  in  the 
market-place  yet  ;  once  there  was  a  Rougegorge  who  pledged 
castles  and  jewels  to  build  a  fleet  for  France ;  a  Rougegorge 
who  slew  a  tyrant ;  a  Rougegorge  who  fought  a  mob  single- 
handed  and  back  to  the  wall,  that  others  might  find  time  to 
flee.  What  proud  action  do  you  add  to  the  list  ?  Ah,  this — 
that  you  broke  the  heart  of  a  woman  !  Now  they  are  sha 
dows';  they  no  longer  live  with  the  strength  of  their  great 
right  arms  in  the  right  arm  of  some  descendant ;  they  are 
shadows,  and  you  are  nothing  more.  Yes,  presently  you 
will  be  dead,"  her  cruel  voice  was  tolling  out  like  a  bell. 
"  Nor  is  the  work  altogether  mine.  For,  look !  When  you 
threw  away  a  wife,  love,  children,  happiness,  home — in  the 
hour  when  you  made  me  a  fiend — you  began  to  die  by  your 
own  hand.  And  here,"  she  cried,  striking  her  breast,  "  look 


80  PAPYRUS'     LEAVES. 

again,  and  see  what  your  hand  has  done  here  !  I  was  a  young 
and  happy  girl,  as  innocent  of  evil  as  ignorant.  Why  was  I 
chosen  for  this  lot  ?  I  should  have  been  a  faithful  wife,  a 
tender  mother,  a  good  woman,  my  heart  warm  toward  all  the 
world,  for  I  loved  you — then  I  loved  you  !  " 

He  raised  his  faint  hand  again  and  drew  the  fold  of  her 
dress  across  his  lips.  She  plucked  it  away  and  looked  down 
on  him  with  a  nauseous  disdain.  "  Once  your  fangs  met  in 
me,"  she  cried,  "and  still,  you  hound,  do  you  fawn?" 

The  sunshine  that  poured  through  the  great  rose-window 
covered  her  as  she  stood  there,  her  hair  glistening  in  it,  the 
purple  and  azure  and  blush  of  the  hyacinths  laying  flakes  of 
their  color  around  her.  She  seemed  ensphered  in  a  separat 
ing  atmosphere  like  some  terrible  enchantress,  beneath  whose 
will  his  soul  was  impotent.  His  eyes  burned  upon  her  and 
grew  dull. 

"  Dying,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do  not  repent  me.  No  destiny 
can  pursue  me  ill  as  that  I  escape.  Shut  me  within  prison 
walls?  This  house  and  your  name  have  been  bondage  darker 
and  more  stifling.  Chain  me  in  the  galleys  side  by  side  with 
a  murderer?  I  am  chained  side  by  side  with  him  now.  Ah, 
it  is  that  from  which  presently  your  death  sets  me  free.  Re 
morse?  You  crushed  my  heart  between  your  fingers.  If  I 
live  a  thousand  years,  when  I  think  of  how  I  served  you  for 
it,  my  soul  will  bubble  to  my  lips  with  joy."  And  she 
laughed  as  she  looked  at  him. 

The  Baron  rose  on  his  hand,  the  fire  relit  in  his  eye,  the 
death-rattle  arrested  in  his  throat.  "  Death  is  not  all,"  he 
said,  in  a  hoarse  and  horrible  tone,  as  if  he  had  come  up  from 
the  mould  of  the  grave  to  say  it.  "  And  I — was  right  in 
avenging  St.  Marc!" 


ROUGEGORGE. 


Si 


And  then,  as  a  suit  of  empty  armor  clashes  down,  he  fell 
back  again  at  her  feet,  and  if  the  Baron  Rougegorge  had  a 
soul,  that  soul  had  flown. 

When  the  Abbe  Marforio  paused  once  at  a  cell  behind 
whose  grating,  stripped  of  name  and  title  and  splendor,  and 
even  of  her  tresses,  a  woman  sat  weaving  straw  in  plaits,  he 
made  her  a  mock  reverence.  "  And  is  this  the  way  she  lives 
for  him,  gives  him  her  present,  pledges  him  her  eternity?"  he 
said.  "Is  this  the  way  such  a  woman  loves?" 

She  looked  up  with  the  old  dazzling  smile,  of  which  they 
could  not  strip  her.  "  And  hates,  monsieur,"  she  answered, 
quietly,  and  went  back  to  her  weaving. 


SUMMER  GONE 


SUMMER    GONE. 


BY    GAIL   HAMILTON. 


SUMMER  days  !*so  flushed  with  royal  beauty, 
I  trod  not  careless  through  your    golden 

hours ; 

I  bared  my  brow  to  meet  your  floating  fra 
grance, 

I  filled  my  bosom  with  your  passion-flowers, 
I  kissed  the  honey  from  your  lily-cups, 

My  happy  soul  thrilled  at  your  light  caress ; 
Tranced  in  delicious  dreams,  my  grateful  heart 
Beat  warm  against  your  throbbing  tenderness. 

0  summer  nights  !  robed  in  a  pallid  splendor, 
I  knelt  with  silent  lips  before  your  shrine, 

1  hushed  my  heart  while  you  unveiled  your  glory, 
And,  reverent,  saw  the  mystery  divine. 

My  weary  soul,  clogged  with  life's  earthliness, 
Laved  gladly  in  your  boundless  deeps  of  calm, 

And,  floating  through  the  slumberous,  silver  air, 
All  harshest  discords  voiced  themselves  in  psalm. 


86  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

And  yet  you  left  me.     Vain  my  dumb  imploring, 

My  speechless  love,  my  silent  anguish  vain ; 
Not  for  a  moment  could  they  stay  your  going, 

Nor  can  they  ever  bring  you  back  again. 
The  sun  wheels  up  the  blue,  unchanging  heaven,. 

The  stars  still  marshal  slowly,  one  by  one ; 
But  never  may  the  cold  light  of  September 

Woo  forth  June  roses,  or  by  star  or  sun. 

I  know  that  under  warm-breathed  skies  far  off 

The  loitering  day  treads  with  reluctant  feet; 
There  orange-blossoms  stir  the  scented  air, 

And  proud  magnolias  wave  their  incens.e  sweet. 
I  know  there  is  a  land  beyond  earth's  vision, 

Where  crystal  waters  murmur  all  the  year, 
Where  purple-tinted  mornings  dawn  for  ever, 

Where  blooms  forget  to  fade  nor  leaves  grow  sere. 

But  through  the  autumn  winds  now  wildly  wailing 

I  scarcely  catch  the  summer  songs  that  are. 
Once  more  an  outcast  from  the  warmth  and  sunshine. 

Those  pleasant  lands  seem  very  dim  and  far. 
I  should  be  well  content  with  future  promise, 

Yet,  O  my  God,  whose  hand  appoints  the  year, 
Look  pitying  on  the  famished,  fainting  hearts 

That  crave  a  little  summer  now  and  here. 


SONNET 


SONNET. 

BY    JAMES     RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

HE  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters 

and  sings  ; 
He  sings   to   the   wide  world  and  she  to 

her  nest — 

In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature,  which  song  is  the 
best  ? 


88 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
OLE  BULL 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  OLE  BULL. 


BY    L.    MARIA    CHILD. 


,  in  the  language  of  Norway,  means  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  and  doubtless  has  the  same  origin  as  the 
Saxon  word  Bole,  so  often  used  by  Dryden,  and 
the  older  English  poets.  The  musical  Christian 
name  is  extremely  common  in  Norway.  Two 
friends  seeing  a  boat  full  of  fishermen  about  to 
land,  one  of  them  laid  a  wager  that  more  than 
half  of  them  were  named  Ole.  Upon  inquiry,  it  was  found 
they  all  bore  that  name,  except  one,  and  he  was  called  Ole 
Olesson,  or  Ole  the  son  of  Ole.  At  home,  the  popular  title 
of  the  beloved  and  honored  musician  is  "  Ole  Olesson  Fiole," 
or  Ole  the  Violin. 

This  allusion  to  the  violin  calls  to  mind  one  among  many 
envious  remarks  which  have  been  excited  by  his  extraordi 
nary  popularity.  It  has  been  said  that  he  does  not,  like-  a 
true  artist,  rely  on  his  own  genius  for  success,  but  resorts  to 
tricks  to  excite  and  interest  the  public,  such  as  romantic 
fictions  about  his  violin,  &c.  Those  who  know  his  unpre 
tending  simplicity  and  manly  independence  of  character  are 
well  aware  that  the  charge  is  most  unjust.  The  romantic  his 
tory  of  his  violin  is  no  fiction,  and  few  men  could  possess 
such  a  unique  gem  and  say  so  little  about  it  as  he  does.  He 
sometimes  tells  its  history  to  friends,  in  answer  to  inquiries 


92  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

which  the  singularity  of  its  appearance  naturally  excites ;  and 
if  they  impart  the  information  to  the  public,  it  is  merely  what 
they  would  very  naturally  do  concerning  anything  so  curious 
in  the  history  of  art. 

This  remarkable  instrument  was  manufactured  by  Gaspar 
da  Salo,  in  Brescia,  one  of  the  three  oldest  violin  makers  on 
record  ;  and  it  was  considered  the  best  one  he  ever  made.  It 
was  sculptured  at  Rome  by  the  famous  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
celebrated  as  a  goldsmith  in  his  early  life,  and  afterward  as 
a  sculptor.  Pope  Clement  VII.  employed  him  to  make  a 
variety  of  medals,  golden  chalices,  and  other  rich  ornaments 
for  churches  and  palaces.  One  of  them,  a  present  from  the 
Pope  to  Charles  V.,  was  a  beautifully  illuminated  prayer- 
book,  which  cost  the  Cardinal  de  Medici  above  two  thousand 
crowns.  The  golden  covers  were  wrought  by  Cellini  with 
figures  in  basso-relievo,  and  enamelled  arabesques,  studded 
with  rich  jewels.  The  Emperor  was  exceedingly  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  the  design  and  workmanship,  in  which  he  at 
once  recognized  the  hand  of  an  extraordinary  artist.  Indeed, 
so  decidedly  did  everything  he  touched  bear  the  impress  of 
genius,  that  stamps  which  he  made  for  coins  in  the  Roman 
mint  are  still  preserved  as  rare  specimens  of  art.  Michael 
Angelo  and  Titian  were  his  friends,  and  thought  veiy  highly 
of  his  productions.  He  was  a  great  favorite  with  Francis 
I.,  for  whom  he  executed  many  admirable  works  in  gold, 
silver  and  bronze.  Though  accustomed  for  years  to  make 
small  figures  with  exquisite  delicacy  of  finish,  he  produced, 
later  in  life,  several  noble  works  on  a  grander  scale.  The 
most  celebrated  of  these  is  a  statue  of  Perseus  in  bronze,  exe 
cuted  for  Duke  Cosmo,  of  Florence. 

The  violin  now  in  possession  of  Ole  Bull  was  made  to  the 
order  of  Cardinal  Aldobrandini,  one  of  a  noble  family  at 
Rome,  memorable  for  their  patronage  of  the  fine  arts.  He 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     OLE     BULL.  93 

gave  for  it  3000  Neapolitan  ducats,  and  presented  it  to  the 
treasury  of  Innspruck,  where  it  became  a  celebrated  curiosity, 
under  the  name  of  "The  Treasury  Chamber  Violin."  When 
that  city  was  taken  by  the  French  in  1809,  it  was  carried  to 
Vienna  and  sold  to  Rjheazhek,  a  wealthy  Bohemian,  whose 
splendid  collection  of  rare  and  ancient  stringed  instruments 
had  attracted  universal  attention  in  the  musical  world.  The 
gem  of  his  museum  was  the  violin  manufactured  by  Da  Salo 
and  sculptured  by  Cellini.  He  was  offered  immense  sums  for 
it  by  English,  Russian  and  Polish  noblemen ;  but  to  all  such 
offers  he  answered  by  demanding  the  price  of  half  Vienna. 

A  few  years  ago  Ole  Bull  gave  fifteen  concerts  in  Vienna, 
with  the  brilliant  success  which  usually  attends  him.  The 
Bohemian,  who  went  with  the  crowd  to  hear  him,  was  an  en 
thusiastic  admirer  of  his  genius,  and  soon  became  personally 
acquainted  with  him.  Until  then  he  had  considered  himself 
the  most  learned  man  in  Europe  in  the  history  of  violins,  the 
peculiar  merits  of  all  the  most  approved  manufacturers,  and 
the  best  methods  of  repairing  deficiencies,  or  improving  the 
tones.  But  with  Ole  Bull,  love  of  the  violin  had  been  an  ab 
sorbing  passion  from  his  earliest  childhood.  He  never  saw 
•one  of  a  novel  shape,  or  heard  one  with  a  new  tone,  without 
studying  into  the  causes  of  the  tone  and  the  effects  produced 
by  the  shape.  Through  every  nook  and  corner  of  Italy  he 
sought  for  new  varieties  of  his  favorite  instrument  as  eagerly 
as  an  Oriental  merchant  seeks  for  rare  pearls.  He  had  tried  all 
manner  of  experiments ;  he  knew  at  sight  the  tuneful  quali 
ties  of  every  species  of  wood,  and  precisely  how  the  slightest 
angle  or  curve  in  the  fashion  of  an  instrument  would  affect 
the  sound.  He  imparted  to  the  Bohemian  amateur  much 
information  that  was  new  and  valuable ;  and  this  sympathy  of 
tastes  and  pursuits  produced  a  warm  friendship  between  them. 
Of  course,  Ole  looked  with  a  longing  eye  on  the  oldest  and 


94  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

best  of  his  violins ;  but  the  musical  antiquarian  loved  it  like 
.an  only  child.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  sell  it  at  that 
time,  but  he  promised  that  if  he  ever  did  part  with  it,  the 
Minstrel  of  Norway  should  have  the  preference  over  every 
other  man  in  the  world.  He  died  two  years  afterward,  and  a 
letter  from  his  son  informed  Ole  Bull  that  his  dying  father 
remembered  the  promise  he  had  given.  He  purchased  it 
forthwith,  and  it  was  sent  to  him  at  Leipsic. 

On  the  head  of  this  curious  violin  is  carved  and  colored  an 
angel's  face,  surrounded  by  flowing  curls  of  hair.  Behind 
this  figure,  leaning  against  the  shoulders,  is  a  very  beautiful 
little  mermaid,  the  human  form  of  which  terminates  in  scales 
of  green  and  gold.  The  neck  of  the  instrument  is  orna 
mented  with  arabesques  in  blue,  red  and  gold.  Below  the 
bridge  is  a  mermaid  in  bronze.  Thorwaldsen  took  great 
delight  in  examining  these  figures,  and  bestowed  enthusiastic 
praise  on  the  gracefulness  of  the  design  and  the  excellence 
of  the  workmanship.  Ole  Bull  was  born  in  February,  and 
by  an  odd  coincidence  the  bridge  of  his  darling  violin  is  deli 
cately  carved  with  two  intertwined  fishes,  like  the  zodiacal 
sign  of  February.  Two  little  tritons,  cut  in  ivory,  are  in  one 
corner  of  the  bow.  Altogether,  it  is  a  very  original  and  sin 
gularly  beautiful  instrument.  It  has  the  rich  look  of  the  mid 
dle  ages,  and  would  have  been  a  right  royal  gift  for  some 
princely  troubadour.  Amateurs  praise  its  fine  proportions, 
and  say  that  its  form  combines  many  of  the  characteristics  of 
Amati,  Stradivarius  and  Guarnerius.  Indeed,  it  is  univer 
sally  admitted  to  be  the  most  valuable  violin  in  the  world- 
The  wood  is  extremely  soft  and  very  thick.  The  upper 
covering  is  of  an  exceedingly  rare  species  of  Swiss  pine,  cele 
brated  in  the  manufacture  of  violins.  It  grows  on  the  Italian 
side  of  the  Alps,  for  sunshine  and  song  seem  inseparably  con 
nected,  and  the  balmy  atmosphere  which  makes  Italy  so  rich 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     OLE     BULL.  95 

in  music,  and  imparts  to  her  language  such  liquid  melody, 
seems  breathed  into  her  trees. 

Those  acquainted  with  music  are  well  aware  that  the  value 
of  an  instrument  is  prodigiously  increased  by  the  age  of  the 
wood,  and  that  the  purity  of  its  tone  depends  very  much  on 
the  skilfulness  of  the  hand  which  has  played  upon  it.  As 
the  best  and  brightest  human  soul  can  never  free  itself  en 
tirely  from  the  influence  of  base  and  vulgar  associations  in 
youth,  so  a  violin  never  quite  recovers  from  the  effect  of  dis 
cordant  vibrations.  So  perceptible  is  this  to  a  delicate  ear, 
that  when  Ole  Bull  first  performed  in  Philadelphia  he  at  once 
perceived  that  the  double  bass  viol  in  the  orchestra  was  a  very 
old  instrument,  and  had  been  well  played  on.  Some  time 
after,  the  horse  and  rider  that  represented  General  Putnam's 
leap  down  the  precipice,  plunged  into  the  orchestra  of  the 
theatre,  and  crushed  the  old  bass  viol.  As  soon  as  Ole  Bull 
became  aware  of  the  accident,  he  hastened  to  buy  the  frag 
ments.  The  wood  of  his  violin  was  so  old,  and  so  thoroughly 
vibrated,  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  obtain  a  sounding 
post  adapted  to  it.  This  post  is  an  extremely  small  piece  of 
wood  in  the  interior  of  the  instrument,  but  the  inharmonious 
vibration  between  the  old  and  the  new  disturbed  his  sensitive 
ear  until  he  was  enabled  to  remedy  the  slight  defect  by  a 
fragment  of  the  double  bass. 

One  of  the  most  curious  facts  in  connection  with  this  mem 
orable  violin  is,  that  it  was  probably  never  played  upon  by 
any  other  hand  than  Ole  Bull's,  though  it  is  three  hundred 
years  old.  It  had  always  been  preserved  as  a  curiosity,  and 
when  it  came  into  his  possession  it  had  no  bar  inside,  nor  any 
indication  that  such  a  necessary  appendage  had  ever  been  put 
into  it.  The  inward  spiritual  carving  has  been  entirely  done 
by  this  "  Amphion  of  the  North,"  as  he  is  styled  by  Andersen,, 
the  celebrated  Danish  novelist.  The  interior  is  completely 


96  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

covered  with  indentations  in  ovals  and  circles,  produced  by 
the  vibration  of  his  magic  tones.  Doubtless  the  angels  could 
sing  from  them  fragmentary  melodies  of  the  universe ;  but  to 
us  they  reveal  no  more  than  wave-marks  on  the  shores  of  the 
ever-rolling  sea. 

Whatever  importance  may  be  attached  to  one  or  other  of 
the  circumstances  connected  with  the  history  of  this  violin,  all 
America  can  testify  to  the  peculiar  sweetness  and  purity  of 
its  tone ;  nor  can  the  combined  musical  criticism  of  the  wrorld 
ever  convince  Americans  that  it  was  not  the  genuine  power  of 
genius  which  carried  this  heavenly  voice  so  deep  into  the  uni 
versal  heart  of  the  nation.  They  can  never  be  reasoned  out 
of  the  feeling  that  the  most  skilful  artistic  performances,  com 
pared  with  those  simple  but  richly  tinted  melodies,  are  like 
the  cold  beauty  of  a  statue  in  contrast  with  the  bright,  warm 
coloring  of  Titian. 

The  story  that  Paganini  bequeathed  one  of  his  violins  to 
Ole  Bull  is  a  fiction.  He  never  owned  an  instrument  that  had 
belonged  to  the  renowned  Italian.  The  other  violin,  which 
he  brought  to  the  United  States  with  him,  is  a  Cremona,  made 
in  1742  by  the  famous  manufacturer,  Joseph  Guarnerius. 
The  diamonds  in  the  bow,  forty-five  in  number,  were  pre 
sented  to  Ole  Bull  by  the  Queen  of  Norway  and  Sweden. 

One  day,  when  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  in  Paris,  he 
found  his  two  little  boys  dragging  these  two  precious  violins 
about  the  floor.  They  had  tied  strings  to  them,  and  thought 
they  made  extremely  pretty  carts.  The  eldest,  being  a  very 
sensitive  child,  turned  pale  when  his  father  entered  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  and  distress.  His  terrified  look  touched 
the  tender-hearted  parent,  and  he  began  to  caress  the  children 
instead  of  scolding  them,  for  he  reflected  that  the  poor  little 
souls  could  not  know  the  profanation  of  which  they  had  been 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     OLE     BULL.  97 

guilty  in  dragging  about  a  Da  Salo  and  a  Guarnerius  for  play 
things. 

Ole  Bull  owns  several  violins.  One  of  them  is  a  Cremona, 
made  in  1687,  for  the  king  of  Spain,  by  Antonius  Stradi- 
varius.  The  wood  is  very  flexible,  and  it  is  elaborately  fin 
ished,  being  inlaid  with  garlands  of  ebony  and  ivory,  inter 
twisted  with  serpents  and  little  birds.  He  never  speaks  of  it 
without  dwelling  with  delighted  enthusiasm  on  its  "  sweet,  in 
sinuating  voice."  To  hear  him  talk  of  his  violins,  one  would 
suppose  he  was  describing  a  band  of  beloved  human  beings, 
or  a  collection  of  rare  singing  birds  at  the  least.  No  other 
instrument  has  ever  inspired  musicians  with  such  enthusiastic 
and  absorbing  affection,  for  no  other  gives  such  full  utterance 
to  the  yearnings  of  the  heart. 

His  passion  for  violins  manifested  itself  at  a  very  early  age. 
A  maternal  uncle,  who  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  fre 
quently  had  quartette  clubs  at  his  house.  He  played  well  on 
the  violoncello,  and  had  a  curious  collection  of  rare  instru 
ments.  He  loved  to  amuse  himself  with  little  Ole's  extreme 
susceptibility  to  music.  When  he  was  three  years  old  he 
often  put  him  in  the  violoncello  case,  and  hired  him  with 
sweetmeats  to  stay  there  while  he  played.  But  the  candy 
could  not  keep  him  quiet  long.  The  eyes  gradually  kindled, 
and  the  little  feet  began  to  beat  time.  At  last  his  nervous  ex 
citement  would  become  too  great  to  admit  of  his  staying  in 
the  violoncello  case.  The  music  was  dancing  all  through  him, 
and  he  must  give  it  utterance.  When  he  returned  home  he 
would  seize  the  yard  measure,  and,  with  a  small  stick  for  a 
bow,  endeavor  to  imitate  what  his  uncle  had  played.  He 
heard  it  with  the  inward  ear  all  the  time ;  but  for  fear  his 
parents  were  not  so  pervaded  with  the  tune  as  he  was,  he 
would  explain  as  he  went  along,  telling  how  beautifully  the 
bass  came  in  at  such  and  such  a  place.  At  five  years  old  his 


98  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

uncle  bought  him  a  very  small  violin,  as  yellow  is  a  lemon. 
He  says  he  never  felt  carried  up  into  the  third  heaven  as  he 
did  when  his  own  little  hand  first  brought  out  a  tune  from  that 

o 

yellow  violin.  He  loved  it  and  kissed  it ;  it  seemed  to  him  so 
beautiful,  that  little  yellow  violin  !  To  the  surprise  of  the 
family,  he  immediately  played  well  upon  it,  though  he  had 
received  no  instruction.  He  had  always  been  present  at  the 
family  concerts,  and  he  observed  everything  and  remembered 
everything.  On  his  little  yellow  violin  he  played  a  quartette 
of  Pleyel;3  to  the  assembled  club,  and  they  inquired  with 
astonishment  who  had  taught  the  child,  for  they  knew  not 
that  God  had  taught  him  by  a  process  as  simple  as  that  of 
the  mocking-bird. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old,  a  Frenchman  arrived  in  Ber 
gen  with  violins  for  sale.  One  of  them,  bright  red  in  its 
color,  gained  the  boy's  heart  at  first  sight,  and  he  pleaded 
with  his  father  till  he  consented  to  buy  it.  It  was  purchased 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  put  away  in  its  case.  Ole  slept  in  a 
small  bed  in  the  same  apartment  with  his  parents,  and  the 
much-coveted  instrument  was  in  the  adjoining  room.  "  I 
could  not  sleep,"  said  he,  "for  thinking  of  my  new  violin. 
When  I  heard  father  and  mother  breathing  deep,  I  rose  softly 
and  lighted  a  candle,  and  in  my  night-clothes  did  go  on  tip 
toe  to  open  the  case  and  take  one  little  peep.  The  violin  was 
so  red,  and  the  pretty  pearl  screws  did  smile  at  me  so  !  I 
pinched  the  strings  just  a  little  with  my  fingers.  It  smiled  at 
me  ever  more  and  more.  I  took  up  the  bow  and  looked  at  it. 
It  said  to  me  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  try  it  across  the 
strings.  So  I  did  try  it,  just  a  very,  very  little ;  and  it  did 
sing  to  me  so  sweetly  !  Then  I  did  creep  further  away  from 
the  bedroom.  At  first  I  did  play  very  soft.  I  make  very, 
very  little  noise.  But  presently  I  did  begin  a  capriccio,  which 
I  like  very  much ;  and  it  did  go  ever  louder  and  louder ;  and 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     OLE     BULL.  99 

I  forgot  that  it  was  midnight,  and  that  everybody  was  asleep. 
Presently  I  hear  something  go  crack  !  and  the  next  minute  I 
feel  my  father's  whip  across  my  •  shoulders.  My  little  red 
violin  dropped  on  the  floor  and  was  broken.  I  weep  much 
for  it,  but  it  did  no  good.  They  did  have  a  doctor  to  it  next 
day,  but  it  never  recovered  its  health." 

Ole  Bull  never  learned  to  read  music  by  the  usual  method. 
From  infancy  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  music  fre 
quently,  and  he  knew  the  sound  of  each  written  note  long 
before  he  could  call  it  by  name.  At  ten  years  old,  a  foreign 
music  master  urged  upon  his  father  the  necessity  of  having 
him  taught  scientifically.  The  attempt  was  accordingly 
made.  He  was  instructed  how  to  hold  his  violin  and  handle 
his  bow  according  to  rule,  and  was  told  that  he  must  leave 
off  improvising,  and  practise  by  note.  He  could  at  that  time 
play  a  capriccio  of  Paganini's,  considered  impracticable  by 
older  and  skilful  performers ;  but  nothing  would  come  to  him 
by  the  mechanical  process.  His  genius  positively  refused  to 
go  into  the  strait-jacket ;  and  when  father  and  teacher  coaxed 
and  scolded,  the  nervous  child  at  last  screamed  with  agony. 
This  untamable  freedom  was  his  earliest  characteristic,  and 
will  probably  remain  strongest  to  the  last.  At  school,  the 
confinement  of  four  walls  would  sometimes  press  upon  him 
so  that  he  would  suddenly  spring  out  of  the  window  into 
God's  sunshine  and  free  air.  He  would  leap  fences,  swim 
rivers,  scale  precipices,  turn  somersets  on  horses,  and  climb 
to  the  tops  of  high  trees  to  rock  himself  in  the  wind.  The 
manner  in  which  he  dived  and  rushed  about  caused  the 
family  to  bestow  on  him  the  name  of  "The  Bat." 

It  is  this  abhorrence  of  fetters  which  now  imparts  to  his 
genius  that  freshness  and  overleaping  life  which  constitutes 
its  greatest  charm.  Critics  constantly  complain  that  he  pays 
no  attention  to  the  rules ;  but  the  public  everywhere  agree 


100  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

that  they  do  not  care  for  this,  so  long  as  the  glow  of  his  music 
warms  and  electrifies  their  souls. 

The  Concerto  in  E  Minor,  played  at  his  farewell  concert 
in  this  city,  is  a  favorite  composition  with  him,  but  he  seldom 
brings  it  out,  on  account  of  the  difficulty  of  the  instrumenta 
tion.  It  was  composed  at  Prague,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
widows  and  orphans  of  musicians.  He  imagined  a  daughter 
lingering  by  the  bed-side  of  her  departed  father,  with 
whom  she  had  watched  during  the  night.  The  intensity  of 
grief  gradually  becomes  calmer,  and  is  mingled  with  pleasant 
recollections  of  childhood,  as  the  faint  gleams  of  morning  dis 
pel  the  darkness  of  night.  To  express  this  flickering  twi 
light,  the  different  parts  of  the  orchestra  play  in  different 
rhythm.  One  is  in  four-time,  and  the  other  in  six-eight, 
while  his  violin  alternates  between  the  two.  Light  triumphs, 
the  uncertainty  vanishes,  and  with  the  bright  aurora  all  comes 
into  the  same  rhythm.  "  This  contrariety  of  rhythm  in  the 
different  parts  is  one  of  the  things  in  which  they  accuse  me 
of  violating  the  rules,"  said  he  ;  "but  what  do  I  care?  It  pro 
duces  the  effect  I  wish  to  produce ;  and  I  have  always  re 
garded  many  of  the  rules  of  music  as  perfectly  arbitrary  and 
useless."  This  Concerto  in  E  Minor  is  extremely  beautiful 
and  poetic.  In  the  part  which  expresses  deep  grief,  the 
music  sobs  audibly,  and  the  adagio  movement  of  twilight  is 
indescribably  sweet  and  dreamy. 

"  The  Mother's  Prayer, "  which  has  been  such  a  universal 
favorite  in  this  country,  was  composed  at  Florence,  at  the  re 
quest  of  the  Dominicans,  who  wanted  some  new  music  for 
their  church.  He  promised  to  do  it,  but  neglected  it  from 
day  to  day.  At  last,  they  waited  upon  him  early  in  the 
morning,  and  told  him  it  must  be  ready  for  rehearsal  the  next 
day.  "I  was  in  bed  when  they  came,"  said  he;  "I  had 
been  up  all  night  with  the  moon,  sympathizing  with  her.  I 


RECOLLECTIONS     OP'     OLE      BULL.  IOI 

hue.  thought  of  Norway,  of  home,  and  of  many  sad  things. 
I  said  to  the  Dominicans  that  they  should  have  their  music 
the  next  morning.  So  I  took  my  violin,  and  it  did  sing  to 
me  so  sweetly  the  thoughts  of  the  night !  It  spoke  to  me  so 
kindly  !  I  wrote  down  its  voice,  and  the  Dominicans  com 
plained  it  was  too  plaintive.  They  said  they  already  had 
so  much  sad,  solemn  music,  that  they  wanted  something 
cheerful.  So  I  did  compose  something  in  a  more  lively 
strain  for  them ;  and  because  this  brought  before  me  the 
image  of  a  mother  kneeling  at  the  altar,  entreating  for  her 
child,  I  called  it '  The  Mother's  Prayer.' "  These  friars  be 
came  very  warmly  attached  to  him,  and  tried  hard  to  per 
suade  him  to  join  their  fraternity.  A  tame  finale  this  would 
have  been,  to  the  life-opera,  which  began  with  swinging  to 
he  winds  in  the  tops  of  Norwegian  pines. 

The  "Polacca  Guerriera  "  was  first  conceived  at  Naples, 
alone  at  midnight,  gazing  on  Mt.  Vesuvius,  flaming  through  the 
darkness.  He  went  to  Rome  soon  after,  and  carried  the 
vague  conception  in  his  mind,  intending  to  arrange  it  there, 
and  bring  it  out  at  his  first  concert.  At  Rome  he  shared  the 
apartment  of  a  talented  young  artist,  who  became  warmly 
attached  to  him.  The  intimate  relation  between  music  and 
painting  was  a  favorite  theme  with  this  young  man,  and  to 
the  musician  the  sounds  of  an  orchestra  had  always  sug 
gested  colors.  When  he  slept  late  in  the  morning,  the  artist 
would  often  rouse  him,  by  saying,  "Come,  Ole,  get  up  and 
play  to  me  !  I  can't  paint  unless  you  play  to  me."  Being 
urged  and  urged,  he  would  at  last  shake  off  his  drowsiness, 
and,  half-dressed,  begin  to  play.  The  violin  would  soon 
absorb  him,  till'  an  exclamation  from  the  painter  broke  in 
upon  his  reverie.  "Ah,  dear  Ole,  give  me  that  once  more. 
It  is  such  a  brilliant  red  !  "  or,  "Play  that  again,  dear  Ole,  it 
is  such  a  heavenly  blue." 


102  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Thorwaldsen,  who  was  then  at  Rome,  loved  Ole  Bull  with 
most  devoted  affection,  and  delighted  in  his  genius.  These 
friends,  of  course,  felt  a  deep  interest  in  his  success.  From 
day  to  day  they  would  ask  whether  he  had  done  anything 
toward  completing  the  Polacca.  His  answer  always  was, 
"No,  but  I  shall  do  it."  As  the  time  for  the  concert  drew 
nigh,  they  remonstrated  against  such  dangerous  delay.  "How 
can  you  be  so  careless  of  your  fame,  Ole?"  said  Thorwaldsen. 
"Do  try  to  have  this  new  piece  done  in  season  ;  if  not  for  your 
own  sake,  at  least  for  mine  ;  for,  independent  of  my  affection 
for  you,  you  know  I  claim  you  as  a  countryman,  and  my 
pride  of  country  is  at  stake."  *  The  concert  was  advertised, 
and  the  Polacca  was  in  the  programme  ;  still,  it  had  no  exist 
ence,  except  in  the  musician's  soul.  "Have  you  written  that 
music?"  said  Thorwaldsen.  "Are  you  crazy?"  inquired  the 
painter.  But  he  would  throw  his  arms  around  them,  and 
laugh  and  jest,  as  if  his  musical  reputation  concerned  every 
body  more  than  it  did  himself.  The  day  before  the  concert 
his  friends  were  in  despair  when  they  saw  him  prepare  to  go 
out  after  breakfast.  "  Have  you  written  any  of  that  music?" 
said  they,  entreatingly.  "No,  my  dear  friends,  but  I  have  it 
all  here,"  replied  he,  playfully  touching  his  forehead.  They 
urged  that  the  concert  was  to  be  the  next  day,  and  that  the 
piece  must  be  rehearsed.  "  I  will  do  it  this  evening,"  said  he. 
"You  are  an  imprudent  man,"  they  replied;  "the  public  of 
Rome  will  not  bear  such  treatment.  You  will  make  a  com 
plete  failure."  He  laughed,  and  coaxed  them  caressingly  not 
to  be  troubled  on  his  account.  The  evening  was  far  spent 
when  he  returned.  The  artist,  in  anxious  tones,  asked, 
"  Dear  Ole,  have  you  done  anything  about  that  music?"  "No, 
I  have  not  had  time."  "Well,  do  set  about  it  this  moment." 

*  Norway  and  Denmark  are  included  under  the  same  government. 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     OLE     BULL.  103 

"  Oh,  I  cannot ;  I  am  so  tired  that  I  must  go  directly  to  bed." 
In  vain  the  artist  remonstrated  and  entreated.  A  spirit  of 
mischief  had  taken  possession  of  the  wayward  minstrel.  He 
plunged  into  bed,  and  soon  pretended  to  be  sound  asleep. 
The  young  man  had  the  habit  of  talking  to  himself,  and  as 
he  listened  to  the  bass  solo  of  the  counterfeit  sleeper,  he  mut 
tered,  "How  can  he  go  to  sleep  with  nothing  done  about  that 
music?  It  is  more  than  I  can  comprehend.  I  wish  I  could 
feel  as  easy  about  it  as  he  does."  He  retired  to  rest  early, 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  asleep  Ole  sprang  out  of  bed, 
lighted  a  candle,  and  stepped  softly  into  an  adjoining  room, 
where  he  began  to  write  down  his  music  with  prestissimo 
speed.  The  outline  had  long  been  in  his  mind,  and  new 
thoughts  for  the  filling  up  came  with  a  rush  of  inspiration. 
He  wrote  as  fast  as  the  pen  could  fly.  At  four  o'clock  the 
score  for  all  the  orchestral  parts  was  written  out.  For  his 
violin  part  he  trusted  entirely  to  his  own  wonderful  memory. 
Having  arranged  all,  he  crept  quietly  back  into  his  bed.  The 
artist,  who  was  an  early  riser,  soon  began  to  stir.  Ole  breathed 
sonorously,  as  if  he  were  in  a  deep  sleep.  "Still  asleep," 
murmured  his  friend,  "as  quietly  as  if  the  music  were  all 
ready  for  the  orchestra.  I  wish  we  were  safely  through  this 
evening."  It  was  not  long  before  his  anxiety  took  a  more 
active  form.  He  began  to  shake  the  sleeper,  saying,  "Ole, 
do  wake  up,  and  try  to  do  something  about  the  music."  But 
he  obtained  only  the  drowsy  answer,  "Oh,  I  cannot,  I  am  so 
very  sleepy."  Vexed  and  discouraged,  the  painter  went  to 
his  easel  and  said  no  more.  At  breakfast  Ole  was  full  of  fun 
and  frolic ;  but  Thorwaldsen  and  the  artist  were  somewhat 
impatient  with  what  they  deemed  such  thoughtless  trifling 
with  public  expectation.  "You  will  come  to  my  concert  to 
night,  will  you  not?"  said  the  mischievous  musician.  In  dis 
mal  tones  they  replied:  "No,  Ole;  we  love  you  too  well  to 


104  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

witness  your  disgrace.  Take  it  as  lightly  as  you  please  ;  but 
you  may  be  assured  the  public  of  Rome  will  not  bear  such 
treatment."  "Oh,  do  come,"  pleaded  the  musician,  coax- 
ingly.  Just  a  little,  little  within  the  door;  and  then,  when  I 
am  disgraced,  you  can  easily  slip  away."  They  would  not 
promise,  however,  and  he  hurried  off  to  keep  his  appointment 
with  the  orchestra.  He  had  an  excellent  band  of  musicians 
who  could  play  the  most  difficult  music  with  the  slightest  pre 
paration.  The  rehearsal  went  off  to  his  complete  satisfaction, 
and  he  returned  to  his  friends  as  gay  as  a  lark.  His  apparent 
recklessness  made  them  still  more  sad.  The  dreaded  evening 
came.  The  house  was  crowded.  Ole  was  full  of  that  joyful 
confidence  which  genius  is  so  apt  to  feel  in  effusions  that  have 
just  burst  freshly  from  its  overflowing  fountain.  The  orches 
tra  delighted  in  the  composition,  and  played  it  with  their 
hearts.  The  brilliancy  of  the  theme  and  the  uncommon 
beauty  of  the  cantabile  took  the  audience  by  surprise.  The 
novelty  and  marvellous  difficulty  of  the  finale,  in  which  the 
violin  alone  performs  four  distinct  parts,  and  keeps  up  a  con 
tinuous  shake  through  fifteen  bars,  completely  electrified  them. 
There  was  a  perfect  tempest  of  applause.  In  the  midst  of  his 
triumph,  the  composer,  looking  as  quiet  and  demure  as  possi 
ble,  glanced  toward  the  door.  There  stood  Thorwaldsen  and 
the  artist.  The  latter  had  a  trick  of  moving  tobacco  from  one 
side  of  his  mouth  to  the  other  when  he  was  excited  and 
pleased.  It  was  now  flying  from  cheek  to  cheek  almost  as 
rapidly  as  the  violin  bow  through  the  continuous  shake  of 
fifteen  bars. 

The  moment  he  left  the  stage  his  friends  rushed  into  his 
arms,  exclaiming,  "When  on  earth  did  you  do  it?  Only  tell 
us  that.  Oh,  it  was  too  beautiful ! "  "  Don't  be  so  gay,  my 
dear  friends,"  replied  he,  with  mock  gravity ;  "you  know  the 


RECOLLECTIONSOF     OLE     BULL. 


105 


public  of  Rome  won't  bear  such  trifling.  Why  did  you  come 
to  witness  my  disgrace?" 

The  next  day  all  Rome  was  ringing  with  praises  of  the 
Norwegian  violinist.  They  knew  not  which  to  applaud  most, 
his  genius  or  his  superhuman  strength  in  performing  the  four 
distinct  parts  on  the  violin  at  once,  and  keeping  up  the  motion 
of  his  bow  with  such  lightning  swiftness  for  so  long  a  time. 
No  person  who  has  not  tried  it  can  conceive  of  the  extreme 
difficulty  of  playing  at  once  distinct  parts  on  each  of  the 
strings.  It  requires  muscles  strong  as  iron,  and  elastic  as  in- 
dia  rubber.  Paganini  had  sufficient  elasticity,  but  not  suffi 
cient  strength.  Ole  Bull  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  that 
ever  did  it.  When  the  Parisians  first  heard  him  produce  this 
wonderful  effect  of  four  violins,  it  seemed  so  incredible  that  a 
story  was  circulated  in  the  papers  that  it  was  all  a  deception ; 
that  some  other  musician  was  playing  two  of  the  parts  behind 
the  scenes.  Thus  originated  the  charge  of  "charlatanry,"  so 
often  and  so  unjustly  repeated. 

The  Polacca  brought  its  composer  a  brilliant  reputation  at 
once,  and  musical  critics  were  obliged  to  content  themselves 
with  saying  that  it  was  not  written  in  the  right  measure  for  a 
Polacca. 


r=    =5— _ — 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 


S  shadows,  cast  by  cloud  and  sun, 

Flit  o'er  the  summer  grass, 
So  in  thy  sight,  Almighty  One, 
Earth's  generations  pass. 


And  while  the  years,  an  endless  host, 

Come  swiftly  pressing  on, 
The  brightest  names  that  earth  can  boast 

Just  glisten,  and  are  gone. 

Yet  doth  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  shed 

A  lustre  pure  and  sweet ; 
And  still  it  leads,  as  once  it  led, 

To  the  Messiah's  feet. 


Oh  !  Father,  may  that  holy  star 
Grow  every  year  more  bright, 

And  send  its  glorious  beams  afar 
To  fill  the  world  with  light. 


109 


OLD  DOMINION  DAYS. 


THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK. 


OLD  DOMINION  DAYS. 

GEORGE   GARY    EGGLESTON. 

T  was  a  very  beautiful  and  enjoyable  life  that  the  Vir 
ginians  led  in  that  ancient  time,  for  it  certainly  seems 
ages  ago,  before  the  war  came  to  turn  old  ideas  upside 
down  and  convert  the  picturesque  commonwealth 
into  a  commonplace  modern  State.  It  was  a  soft, 
dreamy,  deliciously  quiet  life,  a  lite  of  repose,  an  old 
life,  with  all  its  sharp  corners  and  rough  surfaces  long  ago- 
worn  round  and  smooth.  Everything  fitted  everything  else, 
and  every  point  in  it  was  so  well  settled  as  to  leave  no  work 
of  improvement  for  anybody  to  do.  The  Virginians  were 
satisfied  with  things  as  they  were,  and  if  there  were  reform 
ers  born  among  them,  they  went  elsewhere  to  work  changes. 
Society  in  the  Old  Dominion  was  like  a  well-rolled  and 
closely-packed  gravel-walk,  in  which  each*  pebble  has  found 
precisely  the  place  it  fits  best.  There  was  no  giving  way 
under  one's  feet,  no  uncomfortable  grinding  of  loose  mate 
rials  as  one  walked  about  over  the  firm  and  long-used  ways 
of  the  Virginian  social  life. 

Let  me  hasten  to  say  that  I  do  not  altogether  approve  of 
that  life,  by  any  means.  That  would  be  flat  blasphemy 
against  the  god  Progress,  and  I  have  no  stomach  for  martyr 
dom,  even  of  our  modern,  fireless  sort.  I  frankly  admit  in 
the  outset,  therefore,  that  the  Virginians  of  that  old  time, 
between  which  and  the  present  there  is  so  great  a  gulf  fixed, 


114  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

were  idle  people.  I  am  aware  that  they  were,  when  I  lived 
among  them,  extravagant  for  the  most  part,  and  in  debt  alto 
gether.  It  were  useless  to  deny  that  they  habitually  violated 
all  the  wise  precepts  laid  down  in  the  published  writings  of 
Poor  Richard,  and  set  at  naught  the  whole  gospel  of  thrift. 
But  their  way  of  living  was  nevertheless  a  very  agreeable  one 
to  share  or  to  contemplate,  the  more  because  there  was  noth 
ing  else  like  it  anywhere  in  the  land. 

A  whole  community  with  as  nearly  as  possible  nothing  to 
do  is  apt  to  develop  a  considerable  genius  for  enjoyment,  and 
the  Virginians,  during  somewhat  more  than  two  centuries  of 
earnest  and  united  effort  in  that  direction,  had  partly  dis 
covered  and  partly  created  both  a  science  and  an  art  of  plea 
sant  living.  Add  to  idleness  and  freedom  from  business 
cares  a  climate  so  perfect  that  existence  itself  is  a  luxury 
within  their  borders,  and  we  shall  find  no  room  for  wonder 
that  these  people  learned  how  to  enjoy  themselves.  What 
they  learned,  in  this  regard,  they  remembered  too.  Habits 
and  customs  once  found  good  were  retained,  I  will  not  say 
carefully — for  that  would  imply  effort,  and  the  Virginians 
avoided  unnecessary  effort,  always — but  tenaciously.  The 
Virginians  were  born  conservatives,  constitutionally  opposed 
to  change.  They  loved  the  old  because  it  was  old,  and  dis 
liked  the  new,  if  for  no  better  reason,  because  it  was  new; 
for  newness  and  rawness  were  well-nigh  the  same  in  their 
eyes. 

This  constitutional  conservatism,  without  which  their 
mode  of  life  could  never  have  been  what  it  was,  was  nour 
ished  by  both  habit  and  circumstance.  The  Virginians  were 
not  much  given  to  travelling  beyond  their  own  borders,  and 
when  they  did  go  into  the  outer  world  it  was  only  to  find  a 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  115 

manifestation  of  barbarism  in  every  departure  from  their  own 
prescriptive  standards  and  models.  Not  that  they  were  more 
bigoted  than  other  people,  for  in  truth  I  think  they  were  not, 
but  their  bigotry  took  a  different  direction.  They  thought 
well  of  the  old  and  the  moss-grown,  just  as  some  people 
admire  all  that  is  new  and  garish  and  fashionable. 

But  chief  among  the  causes  of  that  conservatism  which 
gave  tone  and  color  to  the  life  we  are  considering  was  the 
fact  that  ancient  estates  were  carefully  kept  in  ancient  fami 
lies,  generation  after  generation.  If  a  Virginian  lived  in  a 
particular  mansion,  it  was  strong  presumptive  proof  that  his 
father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grandfather  had  lived 
there  before  him.  There  was  no  law  of  primogeniture,  to  be 
sure,  by  which  this  was  brought  about,  but  there  were  well- 
established  customs  which  amounted  to  the  same  thing. 

o 

Family  pride  was  a  ruling  passion,  and  not  many  Virginians 
of  the  better  class  hesitated  to  secure  the  maintenance  of 
their  family's  place  in  the  ranks  of  the  untitled  peerage  by 
the  sacrifice  of  their  own  personal,  prosperity,  if  that  were 
necessary,  as  it  sometimes  was.  To  the  first-born  son  went 
the  estate  usually,  by  the  will  of  the  father  and  with  the 
hearty  concurrence  of  the  younger  sons,  when  there  happened 
to  be  any  such.  The  eldest  brother  succeeded  the  father  as 
head  of  the  house,  and  took  upon  himself  the  father's  duties 
and  the  father's  burdens.  Upon  him  fell  the  management 
of  the  estate;  the  maintenance  of  the  mansion,  which,  under 
the  laws  of  hospitality  obtaining  there,  was  no  light  task ; 
the  education  of  the  younger  sons  and  daughters  ;  and  last, 
though  commonly  not  by  any  means  least,  the  management 
of  the  hereditary  debt.  The  younger  children  always  had  a 
home  in  the  old  mansion,  secured  to  them  by  the  will  of 


Il6  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

their  father  sometimes,  but  secure  enough  in  any  case  by  a 
custom  more  binding  than  any  law  ;  and  tl^ere  were  various 
other  ways  of  providing  for  them.  If  the  testator  were  rich, 
he  divided  among  them  his  bonds,  stocks,  and  other  personal 
property  not  necessary  to  the  prosperity  of  the  estate,  or 
charged  the  head  of  the  house  with  the  payment  of  certain 
legacies  to  each.  The  mother's  property,  if  she  had  brought 
a  dower  with  her,  was  usually  portioned  out  among  them,  and 
the  law,  medicine,  army,  navy,  and  church  offered  them  gen 
teel  employment  if  they  chose  to  set  up  for  themselves.  But 
these  arrangements  were  subsidiary  to  the  main  purpose  of 
keeping  the  estate  in  the  family,  and  maintaining  the  man 
sion-house  as  a  seat  of  elegant  hospitality.  So  great  was  the 
importance  attached  to  this  last  point,  and  so  strictly  was  its 
observance  enjoined  upon  the  new  lord  of  the  soil,  that  he 
was  frequently  the  least  to  be  envied  of  all.  I  remember  a 
case  in  which  a  neighbor  of  my  own,  a  very  wealthy  gentle 
man  whose  house  was  always  open  and  always  full  of  guests, 
dying,  left  each  of  his  children  a  plantation.  To  the  eldest 
son,  however,  he  gave  the  home  estate,  worth  three  or  four 
times  as  much  as  any  of  the  other  plantations,  and  with  it  he 

• 

gave  the  young  man  also  a  large  sum  of  money.  But  he 
charged  him  with  the  duty  of  keeping  open  house  there  at  all 
times,  and  directed  that  the  household  affairs  should  be  con 
ducted  always  precisely  as  they  had  been  during  his  own  life 
time  ;  and  the  charge  well-nigh  outweighed  the  inheritance. 
The  new  master  of  the  place  lived  in  Richmond,  where  he 
was  engaged  in  manufacturing,  and  after  the  death  of  the 
father  the  old  house  stood  tenantless,  but  open  as  before. 
Its  troops  of  softly-shod  servants  swept  and  dusted  and 
polished  as  of  old.  Breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  were  laid 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  I]/ 

out  every  day  at  the  accustomed  hours,  under  the  old  butler's 
supervision,  and  as  the  viands  grew  cold  his  silent  subordi 
nates  waited,  trays  in  hand,  at  the  back  of  the  empty  chairs, 
during  the  full  time  appointed  for  each  meal.  I  have  stopped 
there  for  dinner,  tea,  or  to  spend  the  night,  many  a  time,  in 
company  with  one  of  the  younger  sons,  who  lived  elsewhere, 
or  with  some  relation  of  the  family,  or  alone,  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  I  have  sometimes  met  others  there.  But  our 
coming  or  not  was  a  matter  of  indifference.  Guests  knew 
themselves  always  welcome,  but  whether  guests  came  or  not 
the  household  affairs  suffered  no  change.  The  destruction  of 
the  house  by  fire  finally  lifted  this  burden  from  its  owner's 
shoulders,  as  the  will  did  not  require  him  to  rebuild.  But 
while  it  stood  its  master's  large  inheritance  was  of  very  small 
worth  to  him.  And  in  many  other  cases  the  apparent  pre 
ference  given  to  the  eldest  son,  in  the  distribution  of  pro 
perty,  was  in  reality  only  a  selection  of  his  shoulders  to  bear 
the  family's  burdens. 

In  these  and  other  ways  old  estates  of  greater  or  less 
extent  were  kept  together,  and  old  families  remained  lords 
of  the  soil ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  overestimate  the  effect  of 
this  upon  the  people.  As  there  is  nothing  so  successful  as 
success,  so  there  is  nothing  so  conservative  as  conservatism ; 
and  a  man  to  whom  a  great  estate,  with  an  historical  house 
upon  it  and  an  old  family  name  attached  to  it,  has  descended 
through  several  generations,  could  hardly  be  other  than  a 
conservative  in  feeling  and  influence.  These  people  were  the 
inheritors  of  the  old  and  the  established.  Upon  them  had 
devolved  the  sacred  duty  of  maintaining  the  reputation  of  a 
family  name.  They  were  no  longer  mere  individuals,  whose 
acts  affected  only  themselves,  but  were  chiefs  and  representa- 


Il8  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

tives  of  honorable  houses,  and  as  such  bound  to  maintain  a 
reputation  of  vastly  more  worth  than  their  own.  Their 
fathers  before  them  were  their  exemplars,  and  in  a  close 
adherence  to  family  customs  and  traditions  lay  their  safety 
from  unseemly  lapses.  The  old  furniture,  the  old  wainscot 
on  the  walls,  the  old  pictures,  the  old  house  itself,  perpetually 
warned  them  against  change  as  in  itself  unbecoming  and 
dangerous  to  the  dignity  of  their  race. 

And  so  changes  were  unknown  in  their  social  system.  As 
their  fathers  lived  so  lived  they,  and  there  was  no  feature  of 
their  life  pleasanter  than  its  fixity.  One  always  knew  what 
to  expect  and  what  to  do.  There  were  no  perplexing  uncer 
tainties  to  breed  awkwardness  and  vexation.  There  was  no 
room  for  shams  and  no  temptation  to  vulgar  display,  and  so 
shams  and  display  had  no  chance  to  become  fashionable. 

Aside  from  the  fact  tha-t  the  old  and  the  substantial  were 
the  respectable,  the  social  status  of  every  person  was  so  fixed 
and  so  well  known  that  display  was  unnecessary  on  the  part 
of  the  good  families,  and  useless  on  the  part  of  others.  The 
old  ladies  constituted  a  college  of  heralds,  and  could  give 
you,  at  a  moment's  notice,  any  pedigree. you  might  choose  to 
ask  for.  The  goodness  of  a  good  family  was  a  fixed  fact,  and 
needed  no  demonstration,  and  no  parvenu  could  work  his  way 
into  the  charmed  circle  by  vulgar  ostentation,  or  by  any  other 
means  whatever.  As  one  of  the  old  dames  used  to  phrase  it, 
ostentatious  people  were  thought  to  be  "  rich  before  they 
were  ready." 

As  the  good  families  gave  law  to  the  society  of  the  land, 
so  their  chiefs  ruled  the  State  in  a  more  positive  and  direct 
sense.  The  plantation  owners,  as  a  matte/  of  course,  consti 
tuted  only  a  minority  of  the  voting  population,  at  least  after 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.         ,  1 19 

the  constitution  of  1850  swept  away  the  rule  making  the 
ownership  of  real  estate  a  necessary  qualification  for  suffrage  ; 
but  they  governed  the  State,  nevertheless,  as  completely  as 
if  they  had  been  in  the  majority.  Families  naturally  followed 
the  lead  of  their  chiefs,  voting  together  as  a  matter  of  clan 
pride,  when  no  principle  was  involved,  and  so  the  plantation 
owners  controlled  directly  a  large  part  of  the  population. 
But  a  more  important  point  was  that  the  ballot  was  wholly 
unknown  in  Virginia  until  after  the  war,  and  as  the  large 
land-owners  were  deservedly  men  of  influence  in  the  commu 
nity,  they  had  little  difficulty,  under  a  system  of  viva  voce 
voting,  in  carrying  things  their  own  way,  in  all  matters  on 
which  they  were  at  all  agreed  among  themselves.  It  often 
happened  that  a  Whig  would  continue  year  after  year  to 
represent  a  Democratic  district,  or  vice  versa,  in  the  Legisla 
ture  or  in  Congress,  merely  by  force  of  his  large  family  con 
nection  and  influence. 

All  this  was  an  evil,  if  we  choose  to  think  it  so.  It  was 
undemocratic,  certainly,  but  it  worked  wonderfully  well,  and 
the  system  was  good  in  this,  at  least,  that  it  laid  the  founda 
tions  of  politics  among  the  wisest  and  best  men  the  State 
had  ;  for,  as  a  rule,  the  planters  were  the  educated  men  of  the 
community,  the  reading  men,  the  scholars,  the  thinkers,  and 
well-nigh  every  one  of  them  was  familiar  with  the  whole  his 
tory  of  parties  and  of  statesmanship.  Politics  was  deemed 
a  necessary  part  of  every  gentleman's  education,  and  the 
youth  of  eighteen  who  could  not  recapitulate  the  doctrines 
set  forth  in  the  resolutions  of  1798,  or  tell  you  the  history  of 
the  Missouri  compromise  or  the  Wilmot  proviso,  was  thought 
lamentably  deficient  in  the  very  rudiments  of  culture.  They 
had  little  to  do,  and  they  thought  it  the  bounden  duty  of 


I2O  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

every  free  American  citizen  to  prepare  himself  thus  for  the 
proper  and  intelligent  performance  of  his  functions  in  the 
body  politic.  As  a  result,  if  Virginia  did  not  always  send 
wise  men  to  the  councils  of  the  State  and  nation,  she  sent  no 
politically  ignorant  ones  at  any  rate. 

It  was  a  point  of  honor  among  Virginians  never  to  shrink 
from  any  of  the  duties  of  a  citizen.  To  serve  as  road  over 
seer  or  juryman  was  often  disagreeable  to  men  who  loved 
ease  and  comfort  as  they  did,  but  every  Virginian  felt  himself 
in  honor  bound  to  serve  whenever  called  upon,  and  that  with- 
out  pay,  too,  as  it  was  deemed  in  the  last  degree  disreputable 
to  accept  remuneration  for  doing  the  plain  duty  of  a  citizen. 

It  was  the  same  with  regard  to  the  magistracy.  Magis 
trates  were  appointed  until  1850,  and  after  that  chosen  by 
election,  but  under  neither  system  was  any  man  free  to  seek 
or  to  decline  the  office.  Appointed  or  elected,  one  must 
serve,  if  he  would  not  be  thought  to  shirk  his  duties  as  a 
good  man  and  citizen  ;  and  though  the  duties  of  the  office 
were  sometimes  very  onerous,  there  was  practically  no  return 
of  any  sort  made.  Magistrates  received  no  salary,  and  it  was 
not  customary  for  them  to  accept  the  small  perquisites 
allowed  them  by  law.  Under  the  old  constitution  the  senior 
justice  of  each  county  was  ex-officio  high  sheriff,  and  the 
farming  of  the  shrievalty — for  the  high  sheriff  always  farmed 
the  office — yielded  some  pecuniary  profit ;  .  but  any  one  ma 
gistrate's  chance  of  becoming  the  senior  was  too  small  to  be 
reckoned  in  the  account  ;  and  under  the  new  constitution  of 
1850  even  this  was  taken  away,  and  the  sheriffs  were  elected 
by  the  people.  But  to  be  a  magistrate  was  deemed  an  honor, 
and  very  properly  so,  considering  the  nature  of  a  Virginian 
magistrate's  functions.  The  honor  was  one  never  to  be 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  121 

sought,  however,  by  direct  or  indirect  means,  and  to  seek  it 
was  to  lose  caste  hopelessly., 

The  magistrates  were  something  more  than  justices  of  the 
peace.  A  bench  of  three  or  more  of  them  constituted  the 
county  court,  a  body  having  a  wide  civil  and  criminal  juris 
diction  of  its  own,  and  concurrent  jurisdiction  with  the 
circuit  court  over  a  still  larger  field.  This  county  court  sat 
monthly,  and  in  addition  to  its  judicial  functions  was  charged 
with  considerable  legislative  duties  for  the  county,  under  a 
system  which  gave  large  recognition  to  the  principle  of  local 
self-government.  Four  times  a  year  it  held  grand  jury  terms 
— an  anomaly  in  magistrates'  courts,  I  believe,  but  an  excel 
lent  one  nevertheless,  as  experience  proved.  In  a  large  class 
of  criminal  cases  a  bench  of  five  justices,  sitting  in  regular 
term,  was  a  court  of  oyer  and  terminer. 

The  concurrent  jurisdiction  of  this  county  court,  as  I 
have  said,  was  very  large,  and  as  its  sessions  were  monthly, 
while  those  of  the  circuit  judges  were  held  but  twice  a  year, 
very  many  important  civil  suits,  involving  considerable  inte 
rests,  were  brough't  there,  rather  than  before  the  higher  tri 
bunal.  And  here  we  encounter  a  very  singular  fact.  The 
magistrates  were  usually  planters,  never  lawyers;  and  yet,  as 
the  records  show,  the  proportion  of  county-court  decisions 
reversed  on  appeal  for  error  was  always  smaller  than  that  of 
decisions  made  by  the  higher  tribunals,  in  which  regular 
judges  sat.  At  the  first  glance  this  seems  almost  incredible; 
and  yet  it  is  a  fact,  and  its  cause  is  not  far  to  seek.  The 
magistrates,  being  unpaid  functionaries,  were  chosen  for  their 
fitness  only.  Their  election  was  a  sort  of  choosing  of  arbi 
trators,  and  the  men  elected  were  precisely  the  kind  of  men 
commonly  selected  by  honest  disputants  as  umpires — men  of 


122  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

integrity,  probity,  and  intelligence.  They  came  into  court 
conscious  of  their  own  ignorance  of  legal  technicalities,  and 
disposed  to  decide  questions  rather  upon  principles  of  "right 
between  man  and  man  "  than  upon  the  letter  of  the  law  ;  and 
as  the  law  is,  in  the  main,  founded  upon  precisely  these  prin 
ciples  of  abstract  justice,  their  decisions  usually  proved  sound 
in  law  as  well  as  right  in  fact. 

But  the  magistrates  were  not  wholly  without  instruction, 
even  in  technical  matters  of  law.  They  learned  a  good  deal 
by  long  service — their  experience  often  running  over  a  period 
of  thirty  or  forty  years  on  the  bench — and,  in  addition  to  the 
skill  which  intelligent  men  must  have  gained  in  this  way, 
they  had  still  another  resource.  When  the  bench  thought  it 
necessary  to  inform  itself  on  a  legal  point,  the  presiding 
magistrate  asked  in  open  court  for  the  advice  of  counsel ;  and 
in  such  an  event  every  lawyer  not  engaged  in  the  case  at  bar,, 
or  in  another  involving  a  like  principle,  was  under  obligation 
to  give  a  candid  expression  of  his  opinion. 

The  system  was  a  very  peculiar  and  interesting  one,  and 
in  Virginia  it  was  about  the  best,  also,  that  could  have  been 
hit  upon,  though  it  is  more  than  doubtful  whether  it  would 
work  equally  well  anywhere  else.  All  the  conditions  sur 
rounding  it  were  necessary  to  its  success,  and  those  condi 
tions  were  of  a  kind  that  cannot  be  produced  at  will — they 
must  grow.  In  the  first  place,  the  intelligence  and  culture  of 
the  community  must  not  be  concentrated  in  certain  centres, 
as  is  usually  the  case,  especially  in  commercial  and  manufac 
turing  States,  but  must  be  distributed  pretty  evenly  over  the 
country,  else  the  material  out  of  which  such  a  magistracy  can 
be  created  will  not  be  where  it  is  needed,  and  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  case  it  cannot  be  imported  for  the  purpose. 


OLD     DOMINION     DA.YS.  123 

There  must  be  also  a  fixed  public  sentiment  sufficiently 
strong  to  compel  the  best  men  to  serve  when  chosen,  and  the 
best  men  must  be  men  of  wealth  and  leisure,  else  they  cannot 
afford  to  serve,  for  such  a  magistracy  must  of  necessity  be 
unpaid.  In  short,  the  system  can  work  well  only  under  the 
conditions  which  gave  it  birth  in  Virginia,  and  those  condi 
tions  will  probably  never  again  exist  in  any  of  these  States. 
But  the  fact  that,  under  our  system  of  government,  the  peo 
ple  of  each  State  are  free  to  suit  their  local  institutions  to 
their  local  circumstances,  so  sharply  illustrated  in  the  pecu 
liar  constitution  of  the  Virginian  county  courts,  is  one  which 
no  thinking  man  can  contemplate  with  indifference.  It  is  a 
matter  of  small  moment  to  the  citizen  of  Massachusetts  or 
New  York  that  Virginia  once  had  a  very  peculiar  judiciary ; 
but  it  is  not  a  matter  of  slight  importance  that  our  scheme 
of  government  leaves  every  State  free  to  devise  for  itself  a 
system  of  local  institutions  adapted  to  its  needs  and  the 
character  and  situation  of  its  people ;  that  it  is  not  uniform 
ity  we  have  sought  and  secured  in  our  attempt  to  establish  a 
government  by  the  people,  but  a  wise  diversity,  rather ;  that 
experience,  and  not  theory,  is  our  guide  ;  that  our  institutions 
are  cut  to  fit  our  needs,  and  not  to  match  a  fixed  pattern  ; 
and  that  the  necessities  of  one  part  of  the  country  do  not 
prescribe  a  rule  for  another  part. 

But  this  is  neither  a  philosophical  treatise  nor  a  centennial 
oration.  Return  we,  therefore,  to  the  region  of  small  facts. 
It  is  a  little  curious  that,  with  their  reputed  fondness  for 
honorary  titles  of  all  kinds,  the  Virginians  never  addressed 
a  magistrate  as  "judge,"  even  in  that  old  time  when  the 
functions  of  the  justice  fairly  entitled  him  to  the  name. 
And  it  is  stranger  still,  perhaps,  that  in  Virginia  members  of 


1 24  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

the  legislature  were  never  called  "  honorable,"  that  distinc 
tion  being  strictly  held  in  reserve  for  members  of  Congress 
and  of  the  national  Cabinet.  This  fact  seems  all  the 
more  singular  when  we  remember  that  in  the  view  of  Vir 
ginians  the  States  were  nations,  while  the  general  govern 
ment  was  little  more  than  their  accredited  agent,  charged 
with  the  performance  of  certain  duties  and  holding  cer 
tain  delegated  powers,  which  were  subject  to  recall  at  any 
time. 

I  have  said  that  every  educated  Virginian  was  familiar 
with  politics;  but  this  is  only  half  the  truth.  They  knew  the 
details  quite  as  well  as  the  general  facts,  and  there  were  very 
many  of  them,  not  politicians  and  never  candidates  for  office 
of  any  kind,  who  could  give  from  memory  an  array  of  dates 
and  other  figures  of  which  the  "  Tribune  Almanac  "  would 
have  no  occasion  to  be  ashamed.  Not  to  know  the  details  of 
the  vote  in  Connecticut  in  any  given  year  was  to  lay  one's 
self  open  to  a  suspicion  of  incompetence.  To  confess  forget- 
fulness  of  the  "  ayes  and  noes  "  on  any  important  division  in 
Congress  was  to  rule  one's  self  out  of  the  debate  as  an  igno 
ramus.  I  say  debate  advisedly,  for  there  was  always  a  debate 
on  political  matters  when  two  Virginia  gentlemen  met  any 
where,  except  in  church  during  sermon-time.  They  argued 
earnestly,  excitedly,  sometimes  even  violently,  but  ordinarily 
without  personal  ill-feeling.  In  private  houses  they  could 
not  quarrel,  being  gentlemen  and  guests  of  a  common  host, 
or  standing  in  the  relation  of  guest  and  host  to  each  other. 
In  more  public  places — for  they  discussed  politics  in  all 
places  and  at  all  times — they  refrained  from  quarrelling  be 
cause  to  quarrel  would  not  have  been  proper.  But  they 
never  lost  an  opportunity  to  make  political  speeches  at  each 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  125 

other — alternately,  sometimes,  but  quite  as  often  both,  or  all 
at  once. 

It  would  sometimes  happen,  of  course,  that  two  or  more 
gentlemen,  meeting,  would  find  themselves  agreed  in  their 
views  ;  but  the  pleasure  of  indulging  in  a  heated  political 
discussion  was  never  foregone  for  any  such  paltry  reason  as 
that.  Finding  no  point  upon  which  they  could  disagree, 
they  would  straightway  join  forces  and  do  valiant  battle 
against  the  common  enemy.  That  the  enemy  was  not  present 
to  answer  made  no  difference.  They  knew  all  his  positions 
and  all  the  arguments  by  which  his  views  could  be  sustained 
quite  as  well  as  he  did,  and  they  combated  these.  It  was 
funny,  of  course  ;  but  the  participants  in  these  one-sided  de 
bates  never  seemed  to  see  the  ludicrous  points  of  the  picture. 

A  story  is  told  of  one  of  the  fiercest  of  these  social  politi 
cal  debaters — a  story  too  well  vouched  for  among  his  friends 
to  be  doubted — which  will  serve,  perhaps,  to  show  how  un 
necessary  the  presence  of  an  antagonist  was  to  the  successful 
conduct  of  a  dispute.  It  was  "  at  a  dining  day,"  to  speak  in 
the  native  idiom,  and  it  so  happened  that  all  the  guests  were 
Whigs,  except  Mr.  E.,  who  was  the  stanchest  of  Jefferson- 
ian  Democrats.  The  discussion  began,  of  course,  the  moment 
the  ladies  left  the  table,  and  it  speedily  waxed  hot.  Mr.  E., 
getting  the  ear  of  the  company  in  the  cutset,  laid  on  right 
and  left  with  his  customary  vigor,  rasping  the  Whigs  on  their 
sorest  points,  arguing,  asserting,  denouncing,  demonstrating 
— to  his  own  entire  satisfaction — for  perhaps  half  an  hour, 
silencing  every  attempt  at  interruption  by  saying: 

"  Now  wait,  please,  till  I  get  through.  I'm  one  against 
seven,  and  you  must  let  me  make  my  points.  Then  you  can 
reply." 


126  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

He  finished  at  last,  leaving  every  Whig  nerve  quivering, 
every  Whig  face  burning  with  suppressed  indignation,  and 
every  Whig  breast  full,  almost  to  bursting,  with  a  speech  in 
reply.  The  strongest  debater  of  them  all  managed  to  begin 
first  ;  but,  just  as  he  pronounced  the  opening  words,  Mr.  E. 
interrupted  him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all  your  little  arguments, 
so  I'll  go  and  talk  with  the  ladies  for  half  an  hour,  while  you 
run  them  over ;  when  you  get  through  send  for  me,  and  I'll 
come  and  sweep  you  clear  out  of  the  arena," 

And  with  that  the  exasperating  man  bowed  himself  out 
of  the  dining-room. 

But  with  all  its  ludicrousness,  this  universal  habit  of 
"talking  politics"  had  its  uses.  In  the  first  place,  politics, 
with  these  men  was  a  matter  of  principle,  and  not  at  all  a 
question  of  shrewd  management.  They  knew  what  they  had 
and  what  they  wanted.  Better  still,  they  knew  every  office 
holder's  record,  and  held  each  to  a  strict  account  of  his 
stewardship. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  habit  in  social  life,  every  man 
was  constantly  on  his  mettle,  of  course,  and  every  young  man 
was  bound  to  fortify  himself  for  contests  to  come  by  a  dili 
gent  study  of  history  and  politics.  He  must  know,  as  a 
necessary  preparation  for  ordinary  social  converse,  all  those 
things  that  are  commonly  left  to  the  professional  politicians. 
As  well  might  he  go  into  society  in  ignorance  of  yesterday's, 
weather  or  last  week's  news  as  without  full  knowledge  of 
Benton's"  Thirty  Years' View  "  and  a  familiar  acquaintance 
with  the  papers  in  the  Federalist.  In  short,  this  odd  habit 
compelled  thorough  political  education,  and  enforced  upon 
every  man  old  enough  to  vote  an  active,  earnest  participation; 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  I2/ 

in  politics.  Perhaps  a  country  in  which  universal  suffrage 
exists  would  be  the  better  if  both  were  more  general  than 
they  are. 

But  politics  did  not  furnish  the  only  subjects  of  debate 
among  these  people.  They  talked  politics,  it  is  true,  when 
ever  they  met  at  all,  but  when  they  had  mutually  annihilated 
each  other,  when  each  had  said  all  there  was  to  say  on  the 
subject,  they  frequently  turned  to  other  themes.  Of  these 
the  ones  most  commonly  and  most  vigorously  discussed  were 
points  of  doctrinal  theology.  The  great  battle-ground  was 
baptism.  Half  the  people,  perhaps,  were  Baptists,  and  when 
Baptist  and  "  pedo-Baptist "  met,  they  sniffed  the  battle  at 
once — that  is  to  say,  as  soon  as  they  had  finished  the  inevi 
table  discussion  of  politics.  On  this  question  of  baptism 
each  had  been  over  the  ground  many  hundreds  of  times,  and 
each  must  have  known,  when  he  put  forward  an  argument, 
what  the  answer  would  be.  •  But  this  made  no  manner  of  dif 
ference.  They  were  always  ready  to  go  over  the  matter 
again.  I  amused  myself  once  (for  I  was  only  a  looker-on  in 
Virginia,  a  Virginian  by  inheritance  and  brevet,  but  not  by 
birth  or  early  education)  by  preparing  a  "  part  "  debate  on 
the  subject.  I  arranged  the  remarks  of  each  disputant,  in 
outline,  providing  each  speech  with  its  proper  "  cue,"  after 
the  manner  of  stage  copies  of  a  play,  and,  taking  a  friend 
into  my  confidence,  I  used  sometimes  to  follow  the  discus 
sion,  with  my  copy  of  it  in  hand,  and  except  in  the  case  of  a 
very  poorly-informed  or  wholly  unpractised  debater,  my 
cues  and  speeches  were  always  found  to  be  amusingly 
accurate. 

The  Virginians  were  a  very  religious  as  well  as  a  very 
polemical  people,  however,  and  I  do  not  remember  that  I 


128  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

ever  knew  them,  even  in  the  heat  of  their  fiercest  discussions 
upon  doctrine,  to  forget  the  brotherly  kindness  which  lay  as 
a  broad  foundation  under  their  card-houses  of  creed.  They 
believed  with  all  their  souls  in  the  doctrines  set  forth  by  their 
several  denominations,  and  maintained  them  stoutly  on  all 
occasions;  but  they  loved  each  other,  attended  each  other's 
services,  and  joined  hands  right  heartily  in  every  good  work. 
There  was  one  other  peculiarity  in  their  church  relations 
worthy  of  notice.  The  Episcopal  church  was  once  an  estab 
lishment  in  Virginia,  as  every  reader  knows,  but  every  reader 
does  not  know,  perhaps,  that  up  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war 
it  remained  in  some  sense  an  establishment  in  some  parts  of 
the  State.  There  were  little  old  churches  in  many  neighbor 
hoods  which  had  stood  for  a  century  or  two,  and  the  ances 
tors  of  the  present  generation  all  belonged  to  them  in  their 
time.  One  of  these  churches  I  remember  lovingly  for  its  old 
traditions,  for  its  picturesqueness,  and  for  the  warmth  of  the 
greeting  its  congregation  gave  me — not  as  a  congregation,  but 
as  individuals — when  I,  a  lad  half  grown,  returned  to  the  land 
of  my  fathers.  Every  man  and  woman  in  that  congregation 
had  known  my  father  and  loved  him,  and  nearly  every  one 
was  my  cousin,  at  least  in  the  Virginian  acceptation  of  that 
word.  The  church  was  Episcopal,  of  course,  while  the  great 
majority,  perhaps  seven-eighths,  of  the  people  who  attended 
and  supported  it  were  members  of  other  denominations — 
Baptists,  Presbyterians,  and  Methodists.  But  they  all  felt 
themselves  at  home  here.  This  was  the  old  family  church 
where  their  forefathers  had  worshipped,  and  under  the  sha 
dow  of  which  they  were  buried.  They  all  belonged  here,  no 
matter  what  other  church  might  claim  them  as  members, 
They  paid  the  old  clergyman's  salary;  served  in  the  vestry; 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  1 29 

attended  the  services ;  kept  church,  organ,  and  church-yard 
in  repair ;  and  in  all  respects  regarded  themselves,  and  were 
held  by  others,  as  members  here  of  right  and  by  inheritance. 
It  was  church  and  family  instead  of  church  and  state,  and 
the  sternest  Baptist  or  Presbyterian  among  them  would  have 
thought  himself  wronged  if  left  out  of  the  count  of  this  little 
church  ^  membership.  This  was  their  heritage,  their  home, 
and  the  fact  that  they  had  also  united  themselves  with 
churches  of  other  denominations  made  no  difference  what 
ever  in  their  feeling  toward  the  old  mother  church  there 
in  the  woods,  guarding  and  cherishing  the  dust  of  their 
dead. 

All  the  people,  young  and  old,  went  to  church ;  it  was 
both  pleasant  and  proper  to  do  so,  though  not  all  of  them 
went  for  the  sake  of  the  sermon  or  the  service.  The  churches 
were  usually  built  in  the  midst  of  a  grove  of  century  oaks, 
and  their  surroundings  were  nearly  always  pleasantly  pic 
turesque.  The  gentlemen  came  on  horseback,  the  ladies  in 
their  great,  lumbering,  old-fashioned  carriages,  with  an  ebony 
driver  in  front  and  a  more  or  less  ebony  footman  or  two 
behind.  Beside  the  driver  sat,  ordinarily,  the  old  "mammy" 
of  the  family,  or  some  other  equally  respectable  and 
respected  African  woman,  whose  crimson  or  scarlet  turban, 
and  orange  neckerchief  gave  a  dash  of  color  to  the  picture, 
a  trifle  barbarous,  perhaps,  in  combination,  but  none  the  less 
pleasant  in  its  effect  for  that.  The  young  men  came  first, 
mounted  on  superb  riding-horses,  wearing  great  buckskin 
gauntlets,  and  clad  in  full  evening  dress — that  being  en  regie 
always  in  Virginia — with  the  skirts  of  the  coat  drawn  for 
ward  over  the  thighs  and  pinned  in  front,  as  a  precaution 
against  possible  contact  with  the  reeking  sides  of  the  hard- 


130  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

ridden  steeds.  When  I  first  saw  young  gentlemen  riding  to 
•church  dressed  in  this  fashion,  the  grotesqueness  'of  the  thing 
impressed  me  strongly  ;  but  one  coon  gets  used  to  the  habi 
tual,  and  I  have  worn  full  evening  dress  on  horseback  many  a 
time,  once  even  in  a  cavalry  parade. 

The  young  men  came  first  to  church,  I  said,  and  they  did 
so  for  a  purpose.  The  carriages  were  elegant  and  costly, 
many  of  them,  but  nearly  all  were  extremely  old-fashioned ; 
perched  high  in  air,  they  were  not  easy  of  entrance  or  exit 
by  ladies  in  full  dress  without  assistance,  and  it  was  ac 
counted  the  prescriptive  duty  and  privilege  of  the  young  men 
to  render  the  needed  service  at  the  church  door.  When  this 
preliminary  duty  was  fully  done,  some  of  the  youths  took 
seats  inside  the  church ;  but  if  the  weather  were  fine  many 
preferred  to  stroll  through  the  woods,  or  to  sit  in  little 
groups  under  the  trees,  awaiting  the  exit  of  the  ladies,  who 
must  of  course  be  chatted  with  and  helped  into  their  car 
riages  again.  Invitations  to  dinner  or  to  a  more  extended 
visit  were  in  order  the  moment  the  service  was  over.  Every 
gentleman  went  to  dine  with  a  friend,  or  took  a  number  of 
friends  to  dine  with  him.  But  the  arrangements  depended 
largely  upon  the  young  women,  who  had  a  very  pretty  habit 
of  visiting  each  other  and  staying  a  week  or  more,  and  these 
visits  nearly  always  originated  at  church.  Each  young  lady 
invited  all  the  rest  to  go  home  with  her,  and  after  a  deal  of 
confused  consultation,  out  of  whose  chaos  only  the  feminine 
mind  could  possibly  have  extracted  anything  like  a  conclu 
sion,  two  or  three  would  win  all  the  others  to  themselves, 
each  taking  half  a  dozen  or  more  with  her,  and  promising  to 
send  early  next  morning  for  their  trunks.  With  so  many  of 
the  fairest  damsels  secured  for  a  visit  of  a  week  or  a  fort- 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  131 

night,  the  young  hostess  was  sure  of  cavaliers  in  plenty  to  do 
her  guests  honor.  And  upon  my  word  it  was  all  very  plea 
sant  !  I  have  idled  away  many  a  week  in  those  old  country- 
houses,  and  for  my  life  I  cannot  manage  to  regret  the  fact,  or 
to  remember  it  with  a  single  pang  of  remorse  for  the  wasted 
hours.  Perhaps  after  all  they  were  not  wholly  wasted.  Who 
shall  say?  Other  things  than  gold  are  golden. 

As  a  guest  in  those  houses  one  was  not  welcome  only,  but 
free.  There  was  a  servant  to  take  your  horse,  a  servant  to 
brush  your  clothes,  a  servant  to  attend  you  whenever  you 
had  a  want  to  supply  or  a  wish  to  gratify.  But  you  were 
never  oppressed  with  attentions,  or  under  any  kind  of 
restraint.  If  you  liked  to  sit  in  the  parlor,  the  ladies  there 
would  entertain  you  very  agreeably,  or  set  you  to  entertain 
them  by  reading  aloud  or  by  anything  else  which  might  sug 
gest  itself.  If  you  preferred  the  piazza.,  there  were  sure  to  be 
others  like-minded  with  yourself.  If  you  smoked,  there  were 
always  pipes  and  tobacco  on  the  sideboard,  and  a  man-ser 
vant  to  bring  them  to  you  if  you  were  not  inclined  to  go 
after  them.  In  short,  each  guest  might  do  precisely  as  he 
pleased,  sure  that  in  doing  so  he  should  best  please  his  host 
and  hostess. 

My  own  favorite  amusement — I  am  the  father  of  a  family 
now,  and  may  freely  confess  the  fancies  and  foibles  of  a 
departed  youth — was  to  accompany  the  young  lady  mistress 
of  the  mansion  on  her  rounds  of  domestic  duty,  carrying  her 
key-basket  for  her,  and  assisting  her  in  various  ways,  unlock 
ing  doors  and — really  I  cannot  remember  that  I  was  of  any 
very  great  use  to  her,  after  all  ;  but  willingness  counts  for  a 
good  deal  in  this  world,  and  I  was  always  very  willing,  at  any 
rate.  As  a  rule,  the  young  lady  of  the  mansion  was  house- 


132  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

keeper,  and  perhaps  this  may  account  for  the  fact  that  the 
habit  of  carrying  housekeepers'  key-baskets  for  them  was 
very  general  among  the  young  gentlemen  in  houses  where 
they  were  upon  terms  of  intimate  friendship. 

Life  in  Virginia  was  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  and  its 
attainment.  Money  was  a  means  only,  and  was  usually 
spent  very  lavishly  whenever  its  expenditure  could  add  in 
any  way  to  comfort,  but  as  there  was  never  any  occasion  to 
spend  it  for  mere  display,  most  of  the  planters  were  abun 
dantly  able  to  use  it  freely  for  better  purposes — that  is  ta 
say,  most  of  them  were  able  to  owe  their  debts  and  to  renew 
their  notes  when  necessary.  Their  houses  were  built  for 
comfort,  and  had  grown  gray  with  age  long  before  the  pres 
ent  generation  was  born.  A  great  passage-way  ran  through 
the  middle,  commonly,  and  here  stood  furniture  which  would 
have  delighted  the  heart  of  a  mediaevalist ;  great,  heavy 
oaken  chairs,  black  with  age  and  polished  with  long  usage — 
chairs  whose  joints  were  naked  and  not  ashamed  ;  sofas  of 
ponderous  build,  made  by  carpenters  who  were  sceptical  as 
to  the  strength  of  woods,  and  thought  it  necessary  to  employ 
solid  pieces  of  oak  four  inches  in  diameter  for  legs,  and  to 
shoe  each  with  a  solid  brass  lion's  paw  as  a  precaution  against 
abrasion.  A  great  porch  in  front  was  shut  out  at  night  by 
the  ponderous  double  doors  of  the  hall-way  ;  but  during  the 
day  the  way  was  wide  open  through  the  house. 

The  floors  were  of  white  ash,  and  in  summer  no  carpets 
were  anywhere  to  be  seen.  Early  every  morning  the  floors 
were  polished  by  diligent  scouring  with  dry  pine  needles,  and 
the  furniture  similarly  brightened  by  rubbing  with  wax  and 
cork.  In  the  parlors  the  furniture  was  usually  very  rich  as  to 
woods,  and  very  antique  in  workmanship.  The  curtains  were 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  133 

of  crimson  damask,  with  lace  underneath,  and  the  contrast 
between  these  and  the  bare,  white,  polished  floor  was  singu 
larly  pleasing. 

The  first  white  person  astir  in  the  house  every  morning 
was  the  lady  who  carried  the  keys,  mother  or  daughter,  as  the 
case  might  be.  Her  morning  work  was  no  light  affair,  and 
its  accomplishment  consumed  several  hours  daily.  To  begin 
with,  she  must  knead  the  light  bread  with  her  own  hands,  and 
send  it  to  the  kitchen  to  be  baked  and  served  hot  at  break 
fast.  She  must  prepare  a  skilletful  of  light  rolls  for  the 
same  meal,  and  "  give  out  "  the  materials  for  the  rest  of  the 
breakfast.  Then  she  must  see  to  the  sweeping  and  garnish 
ing  of  the  lower  rooms,  passages,  and  porches,  lest  the  maids 
engaged  in  that  task  should  entertain  less  extreme  views  than 
herself  on  the  subject  of  that  purity  and  cleanliness  which 
constitute  the  house's  charm  and  the  housekeeper's  crown  of 
honor.  She  must  write  two  or  three  notes,  to  be  despatched 
by  the  hands  of  a  small  negro,  to  her  lady  acquaintances  in 
the  neighborhood — a  kind  of  correspondence  much  affected 
(n  that  society.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  duties  the  young 
housekeeper — for  somehow  it  is  only  the  youthful  ones  whom 
I  remember  vfvidly — must  meet  and  talk  with  such  of  the 
guests  as  might  happen  to  be  early  risers,  and  must  not  for 
get  to  send  a  messenger  to  the  kitchen  once  every  ten  min 
utes  to  "  hurry  up  breakfast  "  ;  not  that  breakfast  could  be 
hurried  under  any  conceivable  circumstances,  but  merely  be 
cause  it  was  the  custom  to  send  such  messages,  and  the 
young  lady  was  a  duty-loving  maid  who  did  her  part  in  the 
world  without  enquiring  why.  She  knew  very  well  that 
breakfast  would  be  ready  at  the  traditional  hour,  the  hour 
at  which  it  always  had  been  served  in  that  house,  and  that 


134  PAPYRUS    'LEAVES. 

there  was  no  power  on  the  plantation  great  enough  to  hasten 
it  by  a  single  minute.  But  she  sent  out  to  "  hurry "  it, 
nevertheless. 

When  breakfast  is  ready  the  guests  are  ready  for  it.  It  is 
a  merit  of  fixed  habits  that  one  can  conform  to  them  easily, 
and  when  one  knows  that  breakfast  has  been  ready  in  the 
house  in  which  he  is  staying  precisely  at  nine  o'clock  every 
morning  for  one  or  two  centuries  past,  and  that  the  immova 
ble  conservatism  of  an  old  Virginian  cook  stands  guard  over 
the  sanctity  of  that  custom,  he  has  no  difficulty  in  determiiu 
ing  when  to  begin  dressing. 

The  breakfast  is  sure  to  be  a  good  one,  consisting  of 
everything  obtainable  at  the  season.  If  it  be  in  summer,  the 
host  will  have  a  dish  of  broiled  roe  herrings  before  him,  a 
plate  of  hot  rolls  at  his  right  hand,  and  a  cylindrical  loaf  of 
hot,  light  bread — which  it  is  his  duty  to  cut  and  serve — on 
his  left.  On  the  flanks  will  be  one  or  two  plates  of  beaten 
biscuit  and  a  loaf  of  batter  bread — i.e.,  corn-bread  made  rich 
with  milk  and  eggs.  A  dish  of  plain  corn  "pones"  sits  on 
the  dresser,  and  the  servants  bring  griddle-cakes  or  waffle? 
hot  from  the  kitchen;  so  much  for  breads.  A  knuckle  of 
cold  boiled  ham  is  always  present,  on  either  the  table  or  the 
dresser,  as  convenience  may  dictate.  A  dish  of  sliced  toma 
toes  and  another  of  broiled  ditto  are  the  invariable  vege 
tables,  supplemented,  on  occasion,  with  lettuce,  radishes, 
and  other  like  things.  These  are  staples  of  breakfast,  and 
additions  are  made  as  the  season  serves. 

Breakfast  over,  the  young  lady  housekeeper  scalds  and 
dries  the  dishes  and  glassware  with  her  own  hands.  Then 
she  goes  to  the  garden,  smoke-house,  and  storeroom,  to 
"  give  out"  for  dinner.  Morning  rides,  backgammon,  music. 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  135 

reading,  etc.,  furnish  amusement  until  one  o'clock,  or  a  little 
later.  The  gentlemen  go  shooting  or  fishing,  if  they  choose, 
or  join  the  host  in  his  rides  over  the  plantation,  inspecting 
his  corn,  tobacco,  wheat,  and  live  stock.  About  one  the 
house  grows  quiet.  Tue  ladies  retire  to  their  chambers,  the 
gentlemen  make  themselves  comfortable  in  various  ways. 
About  two  it  is  the  duty  of  the  master  of  the  mansion  to 
offer  toddy  or  juleps  to  his  guests,  and  to  ask  one  of  the  din 
ing-room  servants  if  "  dinner  is  'most  ready?"  Half  an  hour 
later  he  must  send  the  cook  word  to  "  hurry  it  up."  It  is 
to  be  served  at  four,  of  course,  but  as  fhe  representative  of 
an  ancient  house,  it  is  his  bounden  duty  to  ask  the  two 
o'clock  question  and  send  the  half-past  two  message. 

Supper  is  served  at  eight,  and  the  ladies  usually  retire  for 
the  night  at  ten  or  eleven. 

If  hospitality  was  deemed  the  chief  of  virtues  among  the 
Virginians,  the  duty  of  accepting  hospitality  was  quite  as 
strongly  insisted  upon.  One  must  visit  his  friends,  whatever 
the  circumstances,  if  he  would  not  be  thought  churlish  ;  and 
especially  were  young  men  required  to  show  a  proper  respect 
and  affection  for  elderly  lady  relatives,  by  dining  with  them 
as  frequently  as  at  any  other  house.  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
some  experiences  of  my  own  in  this  regard.  The  most  state 
ly  and  elegant  country-house  I  have  ever  seen  stood  in  our 
neighborhood.  Its  master  had  lived  in  great  state  there,  and 
after  his  death  his  two  maiden  sisters,  left  alone  in  the  great 
mansion,  scrupulously  maintained  every  custom  he  had  estab 
lished  or  inherited.  They  were  my  cousins,  in  the  Virginian 
sense  of  the  word,  and  I  had  not  been  long  a  resident  of  the 
State  when  my  guardian  reminded  me  of  my  duty  toward 
them.  I  must  ride  over  and  dine  there,  without  a  special  in- 


1 36  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

vitation,  and  I  must  do  this  six  or  eight  times  a  year,  at  the 
least.  As  a  mere  boy,  half  grown,  I  made  ready  for  my  visit 
with  a  good  deal  of  awe  and  trepidation.  I  had  already 
met  the  two  stately  dames,  and.  was  disposed  to  distrust  my 
manners  in  their  presence.  I  went,  however,  and  was  re 
ceived  with  warm,  though  rather  stiff  and  formal,  cordiality. 
My  horse  was  taken  to  the  stable.  I  was  shown  to  my  room 
by  a  thoroughly-drilled  servant,  whose  tongue  had  been 
trained  to  as  persistent  a  silence  as  if  his  functions  had  been 
those  of  a  mute  at  a  funeral.  His  name,  I  discovered,  was 
Henry;  but  beyond 'this  I  could  make  no  progress  in  his 
acquaintance.  He  prided  himself  upon  knowing  his  place^ 
and  the  profound  respect  with  which  he  treated  me  made  it 
impossible  that  I  should  ask  him  for  the  information  on 
which  my  happiness,  perhaps  my  reputation,  just  then  de 
pended.  I  wanted  to  know  for  what  purpose  I  had  been 
shown  to  my  room,  what  I  was  expected  to  do  there,  and  at 

• 

what  hour  I  ought  to  descend  to  the  parlor  or  library. 

But  it  was  manifestly  out  of  the  question  to  seek  such 
information  at  the  hands  of  so  well  regulated  a  being  as 
Henry.  He  had  ushered  me  into  my  room,  and  now  stood 
bolt  upright,  gazing  fixedly  at  nothing,  and  waiting  for  my 
orders  in  profound  and  immovable  silence.  He  had  done  his 
part  well,  and  it  was  not  for  him  to  assume  that  I  was  unpre 
pared  to  do  mine.  His  attitude  indicated,  or  perhaps  I 
should  say  aggressively  asserted,  the  necessity  he  was  under 
of  assuming  my  entire  familiarity  with  the  usages  of  good 
society  and  the  ancient  customs  of  this  ancient  house.  The 
worst  of  it  was  I  fancied  that  the  solemn  rogue  guessed  my 
ignorance  and  delighted  in  exposing  the  fraudulent  character 
of  my  pretensions  to  gentility;  but  in  this  I  did  him  an  in- 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  137 

justice,  as  future  knowledge  of  him  taught  me.  He  was 
well  drilled  and  delighted  in  doing  his  duty,  that  was  all.  No 
gancJierie  on  my  part  would  have  moved  him  to  smile.  He 
knew  his  place  and  his  business  too  well  for  that.  Whatever 
I  might  have  done  he  would  have  held  to  be  perfectly  proper. 
It  was  for  him  to  stand  there  like  a  statue  until  I  should  bid 
him  do  otherwise  ;  and  if  I  had  kept  him  there  a  week,  I 
think  he  would  have  given  no  sign  of  weariness  or  impa 
tience.  As  it  was,  his  presence  appalled  and  oppressed  me, 
and,  in  despair  of  discovering  the  proper  thing  to  do,  I  deter 
mined  to  put  a  bold  face  upon  the  matter. 

"  I  am  tired  and  warm,"  I  said,  "  and  will  rest  awhile  on 
the  bed.  I  will  join  the  ladies  in  half  an  hour.  You  may  go 
now." 

At  dinner,  Henry  stood  at  the  sideboard  and  silently  di 
rected  the  servants.  When  the  cloth  was  removed,  he 
brought  a  wine-tub,  with  perhaps  a  dozen  bottles  in  it,  and 
silently  awaited  my  signal  before  decanting  one  of  them. 
When  I  had  drunk  a  glass  with  the  ladies,  they  rose  and  re 
tired,  leaving  me  alone  with  the  wine  and  the  cigars  and 
Henry,  whose  erect  solemnity  converted  the  great,  silent 
dining-room  into  something  very  like  a  funeral- chamber.  He 
stood  there  like  a  guardsman  on  duty,  immovable,  speechless, 
patient,  while  I  sat  at  the  board,  a  decanter  of  wine  before 
me  and  a  tub  of  unopened  bottles  on  the  floor  by  my  side. 
I  did  not  want  any  wine,  or  anything  else,  except  a  sound  ol 
some  sort  to  break  the  horrible  stillness.  I  tried  to  think  of 
some  device  by  which  to  make  Henry  go  out  of  the  room,  or 
move  one  of  his  hands,  or  turn  his  eyes  a  little,  or  even 
wink  ;  but  I  failed  utterly.  There  was  nothing  whatever  to 
be  done  and  no  order  to  give  him.  Every  want  was  supplied 


138  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

and  everything  was  at  my  hand.  The  cigars  were  under  my 
nose,  the  ash-pan  by  them,  and  a  lighted  wax  candle  stood 
within  reach.  I  toyed  with  the  decanter,  in  hope  of  break 
ing  the  stillness ;  but  its  stand  was  too  well  cushioned  above 
and  below  to  make  a  sound.  I  ventured  at  last  to  move  one 
of  my  feet ;  but  a  strip  of'  velvet  carpet  lay  between  it  and 
the  floor.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Filling  a  glass  of 
wine,  I  drank  it  off,  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  and  boldly  strode 
out  of  the  house  to  walk  on  the  lawn  in  front. 

On  the  occasion  of  subsequent  visits  I  got  on  well 
enough,  knowing  precisely  what  to  expect  and  what  to  do,, 
and  in  time  I  came  to  regard  this  as  one  of  the  very  pleasant- 
est  houses  in  which  I  visited  at  all,  if  on  no  other  account 
than  because  I  found  myself  perfectly  free  tnere  to  do  as  I 
pleased.  But  until  I  learned  that  I  was  expected  to  consult 
only  my  own  comfort  while  a  guest  in  the  house,  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  place  oppressed  me. 

Not  in  every  house  were  the  servants  so  well  trained  as 
Henry  ;  but  what  they  lacked  in  skill  they  fully  made  up  in 
numbers,  and  in  hardly  anything  else  was  the  extravagance 
of  the  Virginians  so  manifest  as  in  their  wastefulness  of  labor. 
On  nearly  every  plantation  there  were  ten  or  twelve  able- 
bodied  men  and  women  employed  about  the  house,  doing 
the  work  which  two  or  three  ought  to  have  done  and  might 
have  done  ;  and  in  addition  to  this  there  were  usually  a  dozen 
or  a  score  of  others  with  merely  nominal  duties  or  no  duties, 
at  all.  But  it  was  useless  to  urge  their  master  to  send  any  of 
them  to  the  field,  and  idle  to  show  him  that  the  addition 
which  might  thus  be  made  to  the  force  of  productive  labor 
ers  would  so  increase  his  revenues  as  to  acquit  him  of  debt 
within  a  few  years.  He  did  not  much  care  to  be  free  e- 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  139 

debt,  for  one  thing,  and  he  liked  to  have  plenty  of  servants 
always  within  call.  As  his  dinner-table  bore  every  day  food 
enough  for  a  regiment,  so  his  nature  demanded  the  presence 
of  half  a  dozen  servitors  whenever  one  was  wanted.  Indeed, 
these  people  usually  summoned  servants  in  squads,  calling 
three  or  four  to  take  one  guest's  horse  to  stable,  or  to  bring 
one  pitcher  of  ice-water. 

And  yet  I  should  do  the  Virginians  great  injustice  were  I 
to  leave  the  impression  that  they  were  lazy.  With  abundant 
possessions,  superabundant  household  help,  and  slave  labor, 
they  had  a  good  deal  of  leisure,  of  course;  but  they  were, 
nevertheless,  very  industrious  .people,  in  their  way.  It  was 
no  light  undertaking  to  manage  a  great  plantation,  and  at  the 
same  time  fulfil  the  large  measure  of  duties  to  friends  and 
neighbors  which  custom  imposed.  One  must  visit  and  re 
ceive  visitors,  and  must  go  to  court  every  month,  and  to  all 
planters'  meetings.  Besides  this,  there  was  a  certain  amount 
of  fox-hunting  and  squirrel  and  bird  and  turkey-shooting  and 
fishing  to  be  done,  which  it  was  really  very  difficult  to  escape 
with  any  credit  to  one's  self.  On  the  whole,  the  time  of  the 
planters  was  pretty  fully  occupied.  The  ladies  had  house 
hold  duties,  and  these  included  the  cutting  and  making  of 
clothes  for  all  the  negroes  on  the  plantation — a  heavy  task 
which  might  as  well  have  been  done  by  the  negro  seam 
stresses,  except  that  such  was  not  the  custom.  Fair  women, 
who  kept  a  dressmaker  for  themselves,  worked  day  after  day 
on  coarse  cloths,  manufacturing  coats  and  trousers  for  the 
field-hands.  They  did  a  great  deal  of  embroidery  and 
worsted  work,  too,  and  personally  instructed  negro  girls  in 
the  use  of  the  needle  and  scissors.  All  this,  with  their 
necessary  visiting  and  entertaining,  and  their  daily  attendance 


140  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

upon  the  sick  negroes,  whom  they  always  visited  and  cared 
for  in  person,  served  to  make  the  Virginian  ladies  about  the 
busiest  women  I  have  ever  known.  Even  Sunday  brought 
them  little  rest,  as,  in  addition  to  other  duties,  on  that  day 
each  of  the  ladies  spent  some  hours  at  the  "quarters,"  hold 
ing  a  Sunday-school. 

But  the  Virginians  had,  notwithstanding,  a  good  deal  of 
leisure  on  their  hands,  and  their  command  of  time  was  a  very 
important  agent,  I  should  say,  in  the  formation  of  their  char 
acters,  as  individuals  and  as  a  people.  It  bred  habits  of  out 
door  exercise,  which  gave  the  young  men  stalwart  frames  and 
robust  constitutions;  it  gave  form  to  their  social  life;  and, 
above  all,  it  made  reading  men  and  students  of  many,  though 
their  reading  and  their  study  were  of  a  somewhat  peculiar 
kind.  They  were  all  Latinists,  inasmuch  as  Latin  formed 
the  staple  of  their  ordinary  school  course.  It  was  begun 
early  and  continued  to  the  end,  and  even  in  after  life  very 
many  gentleman  planters  were  in  the  habit  of  reading  their 
Virgil  ana  their  Horace  and  their  Ovid  as  an  amusement,  so 
that  it  came  to  be  assumed  quite  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
every  gentleman  with  any  pretension  to  culture  could  read 
Latin  easily,  and  quote  Horace  and  Juvenal  from  memory. 

But  they  read  English  literature  still  more  largely,  and  in 
no  part  of  the  country,  except  in  distinctly  literary  centres 
like  Cambridge  or  Concord,  are  really  good  household  libra 
ries  so  common  a  possession,  I  think,  as  they  were  among 
the  best  classes  of  Virginian  planters.  Expcnde  Hannibalem  ! 
Quot  libros  in  summo  duce  inveniit  ?  Let  us  open  the  old 
glass  doors  and  see  what  books  the  Virginians  read.  The 
libraries  in  the  old  houses  were  the  growth  of  many  genera 
tions,  begun,  perhaps,  by  the  English  cadet  who  founded  the 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS.  141 

family  on  this  side  of  the  water  in  the  middle  of  the  seven 
teenth  century,  and  added  to  little  by  little  from  that  day  to 
this.  They  were  especially  rich  in  the  English  classics,  in 
early  editions  with  long  s's  and  looped  ct's,  but  sadly  defi 
cient  in  the  literature  of  the  present.  In  one  of  them,  I 
remember,  I  found  nearly  everything  from  Chaucer  to  Byron, 
and  comparatively  little  that  was  later.  From  Pope  to 
Southey  it  furnished  a  pretty  complete  geologic  section  of 
English  literature,  and  from  internal  evidence  I  conclude  that 
when  the  founder  of  the  family  and  the  library  first  took  up 
his  residence  in  the  Old  Dominion,  Swift  was  still  a  con 
tributor  to  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine,  and  Pope  was  a  poet 
not  many  years  dead.  There  was  a  copy  of  "  Tom  Jones,'' 
and  another  of  "  Joseph  Andrews,"  printed  in  Fielding's  own 
time.  The  Spectator  was  there,  not  in  the  shape  of  a  reprint, 
but  the  original  papers  rudely  bound,  a  treasure  brought 
from  England,  doubtless,  by  the  immigrant.  Richardson, 
Smollett,  Swift,  and  the  rest  were  present  in  contemporary 
editions;  the  poets  and  essayists,  pretty  much  all  of  them, 
in  quaint  old  volumes;  Johnson's  "Lives  of  the  Poets"; 
Sheridan's  plays,  stitched  ;  Burke's  works  ;  Scott's  novels  in 
force,  just  as  they  came  one  after  another  from  the  press  of 
the  Edinburgh  publishers;  Miss  Edgeworth's  moralities 
elbowing  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn's  strongly  tainted  romances;  Miss 
Burney's  "Evelina,"  which  was  so  "proper"  that  all  the 
young  ladies  used  to  read  it,  but  so  dull  that  nobody  ever 
opens  it  nowadays ;  and  scores  of  other  old  "  new  books  " 
which  I  have  no  room  to  catalogue  here,  even  if  I  could 
remember  them  all.  Byron  appeared,  not  as  a  whole  but  in 
separate  volumes,  bought  as  each  was  published.  Even,  the 
poor  little  "  Hours  of  Idleness  "  was  there,  ordered  from 


142  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

across  the  sea,  doubtless,  in  consequence  of  the  savage  treat 
ment  it  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
bound  volumes  of  which  were  on  the  shelves  below.  There 
was  no  copy  of  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  but 
as  nearly  all  the  rest  of  Byron's  poems  were  there  in  original 
editions,  it  seems  probable  that  the  satire  also  had  once  held 
a  place  in  the  library.  It  had  been  read  to  pieces,  perhaps, 
or  borrowed  and  never  returned.  There  were  histories  of 
all  kinds,  and  collected  editions  of  standard  works  in  plenty,, 
covering  a  wide  field  of  law,  politics,  theology,  and  what  not. 
Of  strictly  modern  books  the  assortment  was  comparatively 
meagre.  Macaulay's  "  Miscellanies,"  Motley's  "  Dutch  Re 
public,"  Prescott's  "  Mexico,"  "  Peru,"  etc.;  stray  volumes 
of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Bulvver,  and  Lever;  Kennedy's 
"  Swallow  Barn,"  Cooke's  "  Virginia  Comedians,"  half  a 
dozen  volumes  of  Irving,  and  a  few  others,  made  up  the  list. 
Of  modern  poetry  there  was  not  a  line,  and  in  this,  as  in 
other  respects,  the  old  library — burned  during  the  war — 
<airly  represented  the  literary  tastes  and  reading  habits  of  the 
Virginians  in  general.  They -read  little  or  no  recent  poetry, 
nnd  not  much  recent  prose.  I  think  this  was  not  so  much 
the  result  of  prejudice  as  of  education.  The  schools  in  Vir 
ginia  were  excellent  ones  of  their  kind,  but  their  system  was 
that  of  a  century  ago.  They  gave  attention,  chiefly,  to  "  the 
humanities  "  and  logic,  and  the  education  of  a  Virginian  gen 
tleman  resembled  that  of  an  Englishman  of  the  last  century 
far  more  closely  than  that  of  any  modern  American.  The 
writers  of  the  present  naturally  address  themselves  to  men 
of  to-day,  and  this  is  precisely  what  the  Virginians  were  not, 
wherefore  modern  literature  was  not  at  all  a  thing  to  their 
taste.  To  all  this  of  course  there  were  exceptions.  I  have 


OLD     DOMINION     DAYS. 

known  some  Virginians  who  appreciated  Tennyson,  enjoyed 
Longfellow  and  Lowell,  and  understood  Browning  ;  just  as 
I  have  known  a  few  who  affected  o.  modern  pronunciation 
of  the  letter  a  in  such  words  as  master,  basket,  glass,  and 
grass. 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING. 


145 


NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING. 

H.    H. 

NLY  a  night  from  Old  to  New  ! 

Only  a  night— and  so  much  wrought! 
The  Old  Year's  heart  all  weary  grew, 

But  said,  "  The  New  Year  rest  has  brought.' 
The  Old  Year's  heart  its  hopes  laid  down, 

As  in  a  grave  ;  but,  trusting,  said  : 
"  The  blossoms  of  the  New  Year's  crown 

Bloom  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead." 
The  Old  Year's  heart  was  full  of  greed ; 
With  selfishness  it  longed  and  ached, 
And  cried  :   "  I  have  not  half  I  need, 

My  thirst  is  bitter  and  unslaked. 
But  to  the  New  Year's  generous  hand 

All  gifts  in  plenty  shall  return  ; 
True  loving,  it  shall  understand, 
By  all  my  failures  it  shall  learn, 

I  have  been  reckless :  it  shall  be 

• 

Quiet  and  calm  and  pure  of  life. 
I  was  a  slave :  it  shall  go  free, 

And  find  sweet  peace  where  I  leave  strife." 

Only  a  night  from  Old  to  New  ! 

Never  a  night  such  changes  brought. 
The  Old  Year  had  its  work  to  do  ; 

No  New  Year  miracles  are  wrought. 


148  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Always  a  night  from  old  to  new  ! 

Night  and  the  healing  balm  of  sleep  ! 
Each  morn  is  New  Year's  morn  come  true, 

Morn  of  a  festival  to  keep. 
All  nights  are  sacred  nights  to  make 

o  o 

Confession  and  resolve  and  prayer; 
All  days  are  sacred  days  to  wake 

New  gladness  in  the  sunny  air. 
Only  a  night  from  old  to  new ; 

Only  a  sleep  from  night  to  morn. 
The  new  is  but  the  old  come  true  ; 

Each  sunrise  sees  a  new  year  born  ! 


THE  TOO  SOON  DEAD. 


THE  TOO  SOON  DEAD. 


(A  SUICIDE'S  RETROSPECT.) 
G.    P.    LATHROP. 

O  describe — as  I  am  about  to  do — my  sensa 
tions  and  experience  after  committing  sui 
cide,  may  at  first  seem  to  others  an  act 
of  some  presumption  on  my  part. 

I  will  concede  to  prejudice  so  far  as  to 
admit  that  I  feel  a  certain  delicacy,  an  irre 
pressible  reluctance,  at  touching  upon  the 
theme.  I  regret,  perhaps  more  keenly  than  any  one  else 
-can,  that  none  who  have  enjoyed  similar  opportunities  have 
yet  taken  the  trouble  to  record  their  views  of  suicide  in 
retrospect,  this  regret  being  heightened  by  the  added  sense 
of  duty  thus  thrown  upon' me,  compelling  me  to  make  public 
my  opinions  and  reminiscences  connected  with  this  strange 
•episode — in  my  life,  shall  I  say? — for  really  I  am  at  a  loss 
just  how  to  describe  the  date  of  that  which,  as  I  look  back 
upon  it,  appears  to  have  no  place  whatever  in  time.  But  it 
is  plain  that  we  have  had  too  many  accounts  of  suicide  as  the 
end  of  a  familiar  phase,  and  that  we  need  to  have  the  per 
spective  reversed,  so  that  we  may  look  at  the  act  from 
another  side — viz.,  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  phase.  There 
fore  I  shall  offer  no.  further  excuse,  but  proceed  at  once  with 
my  narrative,  merely  explaining  in  advance  that  I  do  not 


I$2  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

mean  to  make  a  complete  revelation — some  degree  of  reserve 
being  distinctly  allowable. 

It  is  not  worth  while  now  to  enter  into  the  motives  that 
led  me  to  commit  suicide  ;  but  I  did  not  approach  the  criti 
cal  act  without  long  meditation.  The  intense  emotion,  in 
fact,  with  which  I  first  looked  forward  to  it  was  checked  by 
and  gave  place  to  a  singular  coolness  of  reflection  that  almost 
amused  me.  Perhaps  it  was  due  to  personal  peculiarities, 
perhaps  to  the  inevitable  tendency  of  the  human  will  to 
excuse  itself  even  for  deeds  the  most  repugnant  to  right  ; 
but,  whatever  the  cause,  the  fact  remains  that  I  was 
governed  by  an  exacting  desire  to  reason  out  the  justice 
of  making  away  with  myself.  This  may  have  been  partly 
because  I  sought  to  make  the  most  of  what  was  clearly 
my  last  chance  to  pursue  a  course  of  human  reason 
ing.  In  these  meditations  I  was  met  by  the  conventional 
notion  that  the  wrong  of  self-destruction  lies  in  our  in 
terfering  with  some  preordained  allotment  of  life.  It  is 
said  that  under  such  circumstances  we  die  too  soon.  For  a 
time  I  was  tempted  to  oppose  to  this  an  argument  from  the 
same  premises  ;  granting  that  the  term  of  my  life  is  appointed 
in  advance,  who  shall  say  that  this  very,  impulse  of  mine  to 
drown  or  shoot  myself  is  not  by  the  same  method  decreed 
in  advance?  If  it  be  so,  I  may  be  accused  of  positive 
wrong  in  not  obeying  the  impulse.  That  argument  I  thought 
was  tough  enough  to  bear  a  considerable  strain  ;  but  I  soon 
found  support  in  still  stronger  reasonings.  The  real  basis  for 
debate  I  saw  to  be  this:  How  can  we  ever  tell  with  certainty 
whether  a  person  has  died  too  soon  or  not  ? 

It    is  true,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  the  young 
who  pass  away  before  reaching  full  manhood  or  womanhood 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD.  153 

have  been  prematurely  removed  from  earth  ;  but  are  there 
not  as  many  cases  of  persons  in  middle  life  or  on  the  verge 
of  old  age  who  also  appear  to  have  died  without  enjoying 
their  due  tenure  of  existence?  That  a  husband,  a  wife, 
the  parents  of  a  family,  should  be  cut  off  before  they 
have  been  able  to  make  more  than  momentary  provision 
for  the  creatures  who  are  dependent  on  them  for  daily 
happiness  and  daily  bread,  this  is  surely  more  worthy  to 
be  called  a  precipitate  calamity,  than  the  breaking  off  of 
lives  that  have  no  such  complication  of  parts.  Or,  if  ex 
amples  like  this  do  not  convince,  you  have  only  to  recall 
the  name  of  some  great  scholar  who  has  collected  masses  of 
material  for  a  work  of  general  enlightenment,  but  is  petrified 
by  death  before  he  has  put  the  half  in  order,  and  loses  his 
lifelong  impetus  as  easily  as  the  pen  that  drops  from  his 
senseless  fingers.  Then,  too,  with  what  a  weight  upon  the 
spirit  falls  the  memory  of  those  who  have  held  high  trusts  in 
time  of  peril — men  on  whom  the  liberty  of  multitudes  hung, 
or  whose  voices  were  uplifting  some  noble  principle  in 
politics  or  sociology — and  with  whose  too  swift  extinction 
freedom  and  truth  have  also  been  for  many  years  thrown  into 
eclipse  ! 

On  a  careful  survey  of  the  whole  field,  it  seemed  to  me, 
indeed,  that  the  inconsistency  of  death — so  to  speak — was 
even  greater  when  forced  upon  those  who  have  become 
stored  with  the  wisdom,  knowledge,  and  strength  of  three 
score  than  in  those  who  are  provided  with  youth,  hope,  and 
energy,  but  seldom  with  the  discretion  that  makes  these 
forces  efficient.  If,  then,  all  but  that  small  number  of  per 
sons  who  are  actually  superannuated  may  be  said  to  die 
too  soon,  it  is  clear  that  to  establish  any  degrees  we  must 


154  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

yse  varying  and  relative  criteria.  Kant  shows  that  to  state 
the  age  of  the  earth  in  centuries  means  nothing,  and  that  to 
ascertain  its  present  period  we  should  have  to  measure  its 
aion  or  planetary  duration,  presupposed  and  involved  in  its 
whole  constitution.  Just  so  must  we,  in  order  to  discover 
whether  or  not  an  individual  life  is  closed  too  soon,  ascertain 
the  principle  on  which  it  was  planned.  It  may  be  that  we 
shall  then  find  it  to  be  consistent  with  an  early  end,  and  with 
that  alone.  I  need  not  gc  into  detail  as  to  my  peculiar  cir 
cumstances  ;  it  is  enough  that,  reasoning  as  above,  I  decided 
that  to  terminate  my  earthly  history  by  my  own  hand  was 
justifiable  and  right.  But  let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  I  do 
not  repeat  my  arguments  here  with  a  view  to  their  being 
used  in  defence  of  any  other  suicide.  I  do  so  only  to  explain 
how  it  was  possible  for  me  to  come  to  the  resolve  which  I 
finally  took ;  and,  speaking  from  my  present  point  of  view, 
far  beyond  all  such  mental  processes,  I  unhesitatingly  pro 
nounce  the  reflections  just  rehearsed,  specious  though  they 
are,  to  be  miserably  dark  and  false  in  their  result.  But  you 
are  anxious  to  know  of  my  transition,  which  I  have  under 
taken  to  describe.  The  instrument  which  I  had  chosen  was 
the  pistol,  and  in  this  at  least  my  choice  was  prudent.  The 
pain  it  inflicted  was  scarcely  perceptible.  There  was  a  deaf 
ening  report.  .  .  .  When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away — 
for  the  dull,  obliterating  cloud  seemed  to  have  penetrated 
every  channel  and  corner  of  my  being — infinite  spaces  seemed 
to  buoy  me  up  and  draw  me  onward.  I  could  not,  however,, 
perceive  anything  distinctly ;  all  was  suffused  with  a  strange 
gray  darkness,  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  known  before,  and 
whether  this  had  its  source  within  me  or  without  me,  I  could 
not  tell.  But  gradually  I  descried  dim  forms  not  far  away — 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD.  IfJS 

a  cloud  of  solemn,  hovering  shapes  that  seemed  to  wait  for 
me.  I  knew  myself  to  be  without  my  wonted  form,  and  in 
some  way  different  from  what  I  had  been  but  a  few  moments 
before.  Among  other  things,  I  no  longer  had  any  conception 
of  one  direction  as  distinguished  from  another;  but,  never 
theless,  I  was  aware  that  this  waiting  swarm  of  beings, 
hovering  with  a  certain  discontent  and  sorrow  in  that  waste 
obscurity,  and  yet  in  their  unrest  motionless — I  knew  that 
these  were  soon  to  be  my  companions.  When  I  found 
myself  amidst  them,  they  floated  slowly  about  me,  some 
coming  so  close  as  to  touch  me,  or  what  seemed  like  touch 
ing,  while  others  circled  around  at  a  greater  distance,  peering 
at  me  with  eyes  full  of  the  power  of  unearthliness. 

A  sudden  consciousness  smote  me  that  these  were  the 
TOO  SOON  DEAD — that  I  was  henceforth  to  be  numbered 
with  them.  And  immediately  when  that  knowledge  became 
mine,  I  heard  a  faint  and  far-extending  sound,  slight  and  to 
mortal  ears  indescribable,  but  mysteriously  pathetic — the 
sound  of  falling  tears  ;  or  let  me  rather  call  it,  to  make  it 
better  understood,  the  memory  or  the  spirit  of  that  sound — 
for  we  know  none  such  on  earth,  yet  it  is  a  sound  conveying 
all  the  pity  and  the  anguish  which  in  human  life  the  sight  of 
tears  calls  up. 

But  this  impression  passed  over  and  on  like  a  moving 
cloud  ;  and  when  I  saw  that  I  was  one  of  the  host,  and 
accepted  as  such,  I  began  to  take  my  part  in  it  naturally  and 
observantly. 

For  the  present,  that  was  my  world.  Until  removed 
thence,  I  found  no  limit  to  the  multitude,  a-nd  I  could  never 
retrace  my  way  to  that  void  through  which  I  had  first 
come.  My  companions  were  of  all  ages  and  conditions — 


156  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

men,  women,  and  children,  at  every  stage  of  advancement  or 
retrogression  in  character  and  years.  They  were  not  exactly 
as  they  had  been  in  the  previous  life,  but  their  general  aspect 
so  far  resembled  its  former  phase  that  I  could  easily  translate 
it  to  myself.  I  soon  came  to  understand  that  what  I  saw 
was  not  the  persons  themselves,  but  a  sort  of  impermanent 
record,  or,  as  it  was  termed  there,  "  Record-Image  "  of  them. 
This  I  learned  partly  through  the  development  of  new  senses 
adapted  to  my  new  surroundings,  and  partly  from  the  Record- 
Images  themselves  with  whom  I  came  in  contact;  particularly- 
one  old  gentleman,  who  was  annoyed  at  some  expression 
of  regret  on  my  part  that  I  had  quitted  the  human  state  so 
rashly. 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  said  he,  testily,  "you  black-headed  young 
fellows  are  plenty  in  the  world.  What  does  it  matter  if  you 
die?  But  there's  some  cause  for  complaint  in  my  lot.  I  was 
a  successful  manufacturer;  I  had  toiled  faithfully  and  assi 
duously  from  my  nineteenth  year  up  to  my  fifty-third,  deny 
ing  myself  most  of  the  pleasures  and  satisfactions  of  life, 
though  well  fitted  to  enjoy  them — books,  pictures,  society, 
and  seasons  of  rest  and  reflection  in  the  lap  of  nature.  I  was 
also  moderate  in  my  desires  as  to  money.  But  when  I  had 
amassed  only  twelve  hundred  thousand  dollars  I  died — with 
out  having  time  to  establish  a  noble  charity  to  which  I  meant 
to  devote  a  great  part  of  my  fortune  and  most  of  my  leisure 
after  retiring  from  business." 

"  But  if  you  died  too  soon,"  I  suggested,  "  it  seems  strange 
that  you  couldn't  have  some  compensation  by  being  sent  to  a 
more  agreeable  region  than  this." 

"Very  true,"  he  answered,  mollified  by  my  sympathy. 
"  But  the  situation  seems  to  be  this  :  Most  persons  who  die 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD.  157 

too  soon  have  their  own  errors  to  thank  for  it,  and  are  there 
fore  sent  here  to  lead  a  kind  of  half-life  as  a  punishment.  Of 
course,  as  you  must  have  seen,  there  was  no  fault  in  my 
case  ;  but  in  the  disposition  of  millions  of  lives  it  may  quite 
likely  happen  that  a  few  have  to  suffer  innocently,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  the  system  and  the  general  law.  Still,  I  sup 
pose  things  may  be  balanced  hereafter.  Our  souls,  you 
know,  are  not  permanently  located  here.  They  are  held  in 
a  kind  of  suspense  somewhere  else  until  we  are  allowed  to 
go  and  join  them.  Then  all  these  Record- Images — you  and 
I  among  the  rest — are  wiped  out.  It'll  be  a  relief  when  our 
turn  comes ;  but  I'd  rather  go  back  where  I  came  from." 

However  correct  this  old  gentleman  might  be  as  to  our 
condition  and  destiny,  I  suspected  that  he  did  not  entirely 
comprehend  his  own  case.  I  was  sorry  for  him,  because  I 
learned -from  the  popular  lecturers  or  preachers  of  my  new 
abode  that  no  one  could  pass  away  into  a  better  sphere  until 
he  should  fully  solve  the  problem  of  why  he  had  been  con 
signed  to  this  dim  stopping-place,  and  become  penitent  for 
his  errors  in  a  former  life.  But  it  was  singular  how  closely 
the  true  and  the  false  were  mixed  together  here,  just  as  on 
the  earth.  It  was  very  hard,  sometimes,  to  make  out  why 
certain  persons  should  have  been  classed  among  the  too  soon 
dead  ;  I  could  not  discover  on  what  principle  the  distribution 
was  made.  It  appeared  to  depend,  in  some  instances,  on  the 
opinion  of  the  individual  himself,  in  others  on  the  sentiments 
of  his  friends  in  the  world  he  had  left,  or  again  there  were 
cases  where  neither  of  these  rules  would  apply.  Sometimes, 
also,  figures  appeared  of  those  who  had  been  dead  a  long 
time,  the  chronology  of  whose  demise  had  been  supposed  to 
be  perfectly  correct,  but  who  were  now  suddenly  remanded 


158  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

to  our  realm  because  some  late  event  or  revelation  had 
proved  conclusively  that  ,they  should  have  lived  longer.  In 
this  way — so  I  gathered  from  historians  of  the  region — Wick- 
liffe  had  been  brought  among  the  too  soon  dead  when  the 
reign  of  Bloody  Mary  had  shown  what  horrors  might  have 
been  averted  if  the  early  reformer  had  been  able  to  utilize 
the  regenerating  forces  he  was.  charged  with.  The  Italian 
painter  Masaccio  had  likewise  been  returned  to  this  sphere 
when  the  historians  and  critics  found  out  that,  but  for  his 
untimely  end,  he  would  have  taken  his  place  amongst 
the  greatest  and  ripest  artists  of  the  epoch  immediately  fol 
lowing  him,  to  which  he  really  belonged,  it  seems.  But  I 
was  much  surprised  when  one  day  I  came  upon  a  great  and 
popularly-beloved  novelist  of  the  present  century,  whom, 
indeed,  I  had  mourned  with  many  thousands  as  snatched 
.away  when  the  world  could  ill  spare  him,  but  whose  loss  had 
been  partly  compensated,  I  thought,  by  the  magnificent 
spread  of  his  fame  and  the  influences  scattered  among  men 
by  his  humor  and  pathos.  But  it  turned  out  that  the  publi 
cation  of  his  biography  had  shown  that  he  ought  to  have 
remained  beneath  the  sky  until  that  work  was  issued,  in 
order  to  see  how  quickly  the  weeds  of  cynic  disbelief  and 
depreciation  could  overrun  the  path  he  had  trodden  with 
such  world-wide  honor.  The  Record-Image  which  stood  for 
him  confessed  as  much  to  me. 

"  I  used  to  think,  when  alive,"  he  said,  "  that  I  had  an  in 
exhaustible  fund  of  humor.  But  this  biography  and  the 
merciless  attacks  that  have  been  made  upon  me  in  conse- 
qence  of  it  have  given  me  a  terribly  serious  turn." 

Wonderingly  and  sadly  I  asked  myself  could  this  be  Charles 
Dickens? 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD.  159 

On  the  other  hand,  those  who  are  confidently  looked  Ifor 
by  new-comers  among  the  too  soon  dead  are  not  always  met 
with.  I  expected  to  see  John  Keats  there.  But  I  learned 
that  his  stay  had  been  very  short.  When  Shelley's  "  Ado- 
nais  "  was  written  it  could  no  longer  be  thought  that  there 
was  anything  premature  in  the  fate  which  had  quenched  the 
primrose  flame  of  Keats'  poetry  so  soon.  Out  of  the  domain 
of  the  too  soon  dead  he  was  borne  triumphantly,  and  the 
sympathy  of  all  sensitive  and  artist  souls,  pulsating  like  an 
echo  of  Shelley's  sobbing  music,  ever  since,  has  confirmed 
that  triumph. 

I  pass  over  as  not  meriting  individual  mention  a  long 
list  of  young  men  and  women  of  whom  it  had  been  pre 
dicted  that  they  would  shake  the  world  in  some  tremendous 
manner  could  they  but  remain  long  enough  on  the  scene. 
Some  of  them  had  grown  to  be  gray-haired,  but  as  they 
had  never  accomplished  what  they  were  supposed  to  have 
been  born  for,  they  had  finally,  at  their  demise,  been 
put  into  our  unhappy  category.  Others  of  them  were 
youthful,  but  the  world  would  now  never  be  able  to  tell 
how  great — or  how  small — they  might  have  turned  out 
to  be. 

Besides  these  there  were  hundreds  of  politicians  who  had 
never  been  elected  President  of  the  United  States. 

I  found  a  few  ministers  of  the  Gospel  who  were  considered 
to  have  missed  the  chief  end  of  the  clerical  life  because  they 
had  died  before  being  cast  off  in  old  age  and  destitution  by 
their  congregations. 

There  were  tramps,  who  had  never  had  a  "  good  square 
meal,"  and  a  great  many  communists,  who  had  died  of  over 
feeding ;  besides  corporation  directors  and  striking  laborers. 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 

who  had  none  of  them  succeeded  in  discovering  the  laws  of 
mutual  duty  and  equal  justice. 

In  an  obscure  corner  I  met  a  thoughtful  man,  who,  it 
appears,  was  the  inventor  of  machines  that  made  fortunes 
for  several  other  parties.  He  died  before  he  could  perfect 
an  invention  for  getting  the  money  away  from  them. 

To  these  must  be  added  a  few  physicians,  who  had  worked 
hard  among  the  poor  at  the  cost  of  actual  and  serious  priva 
tion  to  themselves,  and  a  small  number  of  people  whom  no 
one  could  bribe  in  any  way  to  violate  the  truth — neither  the 
villanous  nor  the  virtuous,  social  convention  nor  the  tyranny 
of  church  organizations,  nor  the  sometimes  mistaken  softness 
of  modern  manners.  Truly  these  should  have  stayed  longer  on 
your  globe  !  I  suppose  they  died  too  soon  because  they  were 
too  honest  to  live,  considering  that  as  we  are  all  mortal  it  is 
more  or  less  fraudulent  for  any  man  to  pretend  to  be  alive. 

The  most  remarkable  thing,  probably,  that  happened  while 
1  was  one  of  that  strange  community  was  the  circulation  of 
a  thrilling  .rumor  that  William  Shakspeare  was  at  last  to  be 
numbered  among  us.  The  reason  given  for  this  was  that  had 
Shakspeare  lived  till  now  he  could  have  been  of  far  greater 
usefulness  than  he  ever  proved  to  be  during  his  lifetime,  by 
•explaining  to  modern  commentators  and  eminent  actors  the 
fine  points  in  his  chief  representations  of  character.  Public 
opinion  was  much  agitated  by  this  report ;  meetings  were 
held,  and  it  was  discussed  in  print  and  in  conversation.  But 
a  party  was  soon  formed  which  contended  that  if  Shak- 
speare's  life  had  been  abnormally  prolonged  so  as  to  reach 
into  the  nineteenth  century,  his  memory  would  by  this  time 
have  become  so  feeble  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  tell  what 
he  really  had  meant  by  Ins  plays;  and,  secondly,  it  was  main- 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD.  l6l 

tained  that  even  if  he  could  state  his  original  conception  and 
intent,  the  critics  would  set  aside  his  explanations  by  telling 
him  that  he  did  not  look  at  his  own  work  with  the  same 
objectiveness  and  impartiality  that  professional  reviewers 
employ.  In  short,  the  critics,  without  any  aid  from  the 
great  poet,  know  more  about  Shakspeare  than  he  could  have 
known  about  himself;  and  we  must  not  suppose  that  they 
could  really  be  satisfied  by  his  crude  and  uninstructed  way 
of  viewing  his  own  productions.  This  party  finally  pre 
vailed  ;  and,  in  fact,  Shakspeare  never  did  enter  the  tedious 
and  shadowy  mid-world  of  the  too  soon  dead — at  least  while 
I  was  there.  There  were  no  critics  there,  either ;  for  the 
generality  of  critics  cannot  die  a  moment  too  soon 

You  probably  wish  to  question  me  concerning  those  whom 
in  your  own  experience  you  have  known  to  be  endowed  with 
powers  beneficent  for  your  world,  yet  whose  path — illumined 
for  a  short  stretch  by  the  glow  of  their  own  genius  and 
honesty — has  crumbled  abruptly  at  the  verge  of  the  abyss, 
letting  them  sink  out  of  sight  into  fathomless  depths  of  life 
unknown  to  us.  You  do  well  to  mourn  them  ;  but  remember 
that  their  departure  has  left  you  bettered  by  the  memory  of 
their  goodness  and  their  beauty,  and  by  the  hope  that  you 
may  accomplish  some  of  those  high  missions  which  they  were 
debarred  from  following.  Remember,  also,  that  they  per 
haps  did  their  fairest  and  fullest  service  in  this  way. 

I  have  little  more  to  say,  but  it  is  important.  Beware  that 
you  let  not  your  mind  wander  eagerly  towards  death  as  a 
relief  from  suffering.  In  the  world  of  the  too  soon,  dead  I 
found  that  the  desire  to  return  to  the  world  of  men  cut  short 
all  advancement  to  a  higher  state  of  being  in  those  who  in 
dulged  it.  I  myself,  conscious  of  the  wrong  I  had  committed, 


l62  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

could  not  forbear  to  wish  myself  once  more  in  the  human 
form,  and  for  a  time  this  pardonable  weakness  imprisoned 
me  ;  but  at  last  I  shook  it  off,  and  then  I  was  able  to  move 
into  another  and  nobler  sphere.  Now,  if  you  conceive  of 
most  men  and  women  on  the  terrene  globe  longing  to  go 
back  to  some  condition  which  they  suppose  themselves  to 
have  been  in  before  they  were  born,  you  will  have  an  exact 
parallel  to  the  irrationality  of  the  too  soon  dead  who  would 
like  to  go  back,  hoping  to  complete  their  broken  careers  ; 
and  I  can  assure  you  that  to  long  to  escape  from  the  human 
state  through  death  is  just  as  irrational.  On  the  other  hand, 
dread  not  death.  To  die  too  soon  is  a  crisis  of  the  journey 
through  the  universe  which  must  be  met  with  courage  ;  to 
live  too  long  is  equally  a  burden.  If  we  do  not  do  our  duty 
on  the  earth,  and  are  not  ready  to  meet  either  destiny  with 
fortitude,  some  shadow  of  our  error  will  stretch  after  us  and 
darken  our  next  life,  making  it  at  least  what  you  can  under 
stand  to  be  a  half  hell,  even  if  you  do  not  believe  in  a  whole 
hell. 

Concerning  the  above  curious  record  I,  who  have  under 
taken  to  vouch  for  it  by  giving  it  publicity,  will  make  only 
one  remark,  though  it  suggests  several  others.  I  wish  merely 
to  point  out  that  the  suicide's  post-mortem  state,  though  in 
some  respects  a  transposition  of  our  own  situation  in  the 
present  life,  in  others  hints  a  similarity.  He  knows  where  he 
came  from,  but  does  not  know  whither  he  is  going.  We  do 
not  know  where  we  came  from,  but  we  have  at  least  vivid 
ideas  of  our  goal  hereafter.  But  we  are  all  of  us — both  the 
suicide  and  ourselves — longing  in  some  degree  to  get  away 
from  present  surroundings;  and  just  as  it  may  seem  to  some 


THE     TOO     SOON     DEAD. 


163 


people  here  that  there  is  a  certain  indifference  in  the  govern 
ment  of  the  universe  as  to  what  becomes  of  us,  so  the  too 
soon  dead  probably  feels  that  the  misfortune  of  his  exit 
hence  is  explained  away  more  easily  than  is  flattering  to  him. 
Can  it  be  possible  that  the  phase  which  he  describes  is 
merely  a  variation  of  our  own,  and  that  we  also  live  in  a 
fractional  region  devoted  to  the  too  soon  dead  of  another 
sphere  ? 


LADY    WENTWORTH. 


165 


LADY    WENTWORTH. 


NORA   PERRY. 

HE  shall  marry  me  yet !"  he  smiling  said — 
Smiling,  and  under  his  breath — but  red 
As  flame  his  dark  cheek  glowed,  and  bale 
fire  burned 
In  his  passionate  eyes,  as  he  swiftly  turned 


Out  of  the  sunshine  into  the  shade — 
Out  of  the  sunshine  she  had  made 
But  a  moment  before — this  girl  with  a  face 
Whose  very  frown  had  a  winsome  grace. 

They  used  to  swear,  in  that  old,  old  time, 
When  her  beauty  was  in  its  wonderful  prime, 
When  her  laughing  eyes  of  golden  brown 
Were  the  toast  and  rage  of  Portsmouth  town, 

Of  Hampshire's  Portsmouth,  there  by  the  sea, 
Where  the  Wentworths  ruled  and  held  in  fee 
Half  the  country-side  of  rock  and  shore 
For  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  or  more. 

"  She  shall  marry  me  yet !"  Twas  the  Wentworth  blood 
That  rose  up  then  in  that  turbulent  flood — 
The  Wentworth  purpose  that  under  his  breath 

Would  hold  to  its  passionate  will  till  death. 
167 


l68  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  She  shall  marry  me  yet !"     And  down  he  strode 
Across  the  pathway,  across  the  road, 
With  a  firm  quick  step  and  a  firm  quick  heart, 
To  work  his  will  and  to  play  his  part. 

And  a  difficult  part  it  was  to  play, 
For  the  Wentworth  blood  ran  either  way — 
His  mother's  blood  that  held  him  tied 
By  kinsman  bonds  on  either  side. 

But,  as  mother's  blood  leaves  stronger  trace 
Than  father's  blood  in  a  turbulent  race, 
It  may  have  been  that  his  wilful  way 
Had  the  stronger  current  to  move  and  sway. 

At  all  events,  as  the  months  wore  on 
And  no  tidings  came  from  her  cousin  John 
To  the  beautiful  toast  of  Portsmouth  town, 
The  Wentworth  temper  rose  up  to  drown 

The  passionate  Wentworth  love  in  her  breast, 
And  the  Wentworth  pride  helped  on  the  rest  ; 
And  six  months  after  her  laughing  scorn 
Of  her  dark-eyed  suitor,  suing  forlorn, 

She  stood  by  his  side,  one  autumn  day, 
A  beautiful  bride.      He  had  won  his  way; 
But  the  gossips  said  that  a  bride  never  wore 
In  Portsmouth  town  such  a  look  before. 


LADY     WENTWORTH.  169 

Seven  years  after,  John  Wentworth  came 
Back  to  his  home  with  a  foreign  fame ; 
Back  he  came  to  rule  and  to  reign, 
As  the  Wentworths  had  ruled  and  ruled  again, 

From  father  to  son,  in  Hampshire  State. 
Seven  years  after — why  he  tarried  so  late, 
So  late  and  so  long  in  a  foreign  land, 
Was  a  riddle  not  easy  to  understand. 

Yet,  late  as  he  caine,  a  welcome  burned 
In  a  hundred  hearth-fires.  .  Wherever  he  turned 
A  hand  stretched  out  and  a  smile  awaited 
This  kinsman  of  theirs  so  long  belated. 

But  amid  this  lavish  neighborly  cheer 
He  missed  a  face  he  had  once  held  dear. 
"  My  Cousin  Frances:   where  doth  she  hide?" 
He  questioned  at  last.     "  She  watches  beside 


"  A  sick  man's  bed — a  good  nurse,  I  should  say, 
To  keep  the  blue-devil  bailiffs  away." 
That  night  John  Wentworth  knocked  at  the  door 
Of  his  cousin's  house.     A  foot  on  the  floor, 

A  whisper  of  silk,  and  there  she  stood. 

In  that  moment  John  Wentworth's  cousinly  mood 

Melted  away  like  frost  at  the  fire. 

He  thought  he  had  killed  the  old  desire ; 


I/O  PAPYRUC      LEAVES. 

He  thought  that  love  and  hate  both  lay 

Slain  by  the  past  at  that  long,  late  day  ; 

He  thought — but  what  matters  it  now 

The  thought  that  had  been,  when  on  cheek  and  brow 

Flames  the  signal-torch  from  his  wakened  heart  ? 
What  matters  it  now  the  cousinly  part 
He  had  fancied  was  his,  when  on  his  pulses  beat, 
With  that  swift,  wild  throb,  as  their  glances  meet  ? 

But  he  curbed  the  Went  worth  temper  awhile, 
As  he  bent  in  greeting,  arid  hoped,  with  a  smile, 
That  he  found  her  well.     Hearing  the  state 
Of  her  good  man's  health,  he  could  not  wait 

His  cousinly  sympathy  to  convey. 
A  tedious  illness  he  had  heard  them  say ; 
But  the  town  was  eloquent  of  her  care, 
Which  had  certainly  left  her  1:0  less  fair 

Than  he  remembered  her  seven  years  since^- 
He  turned  a  moment,  as  he  saw  hei  wince — 
Turned,  and  with  a  purpose  fell, 
In  a  sneering,  passionate  tone  :  "  Ah,  wej), 

"  Women,  we  know,  have  a  potent  charru 
To  ward  themselves  from  trouble  and  harm — 
She  caught  the  sneer,  and  stayed  him  there 
With  a  passionate  cry:  how  did  he  dare, 


LADY     WENTWORTH. 


Who  had  played  so  falsely  these  seven  long  years, 
To  fling  at  her  feet  his  idle  sneers? 
/  false  !"     He  laughed.     "  Madam,  where  went 
Those  fine  love-letters  I  foolishly  sent 


"  Across  the  seas,  in  those  old,  old  days  ? 
I  waited  long  —  'tis  a  pretty  amaze 
You  feign,  my  cousin  —  I  waited  long 
For  a  word  or  a  sign,  for  my  faith  was  strong 

"  In  that  old,  sweet  time  ;  but  the  months  went  by, 
And  never  a  line  came  back,  and  I 
Still  clung  to  my  faith,  till  a  morning  in  May 
There  came  to  me  news  of  a  wedding-day 

"  Here  in  Portsmouth  town,  and  the  bride 
Was  the  girl  who  had  stood  at  my  side 
And  sworn  to  be  mine  six  months  before  — 
You  shiver,  my  cousin  ;  the  wind  from  the  shore 

"  Blows  harshly  to-night."     A  gesture  here 
Checked  his  bitter  reproach,  his  menacing  sneer, 
And  a  hoarse  voice  cried  :  "  John  Wentworth,  wait 
Ere  you  dower  me  with  the  dower  of  hate. 

"  No  letter  of  yours  from  over  the  sea 
In  that  old,  old  time  came  ever  to  me  ; 
Day  after  day,  the  months  went  by  — 
Day  after  day,  and  what  was  I 


172  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  But  a  maiden  scorned?     Day  after  day, 
The  months  went  by ;  when  I  heard  them  say 
That  John  Wentworth  staid 
To  woo  and  to  win  an  English  maid. 

"  My  spirit  rose  like  our  swift  shore  tide — 
Twas  the  Wentworth  temper,  the  Wentworth  pride- 
And — your  cousin  and  mine  had  wooed  me  long; 
His  love  was  sure,  and  my  hate  was  strong — 

"  Quick0  passionate  hate  for  the  suitor  fine, 
The  false,  false  gallant  who   over  his  wine 
Could  pledge  new  loves  while  the  old  love  waited, 
Faithful  and  fond,  this  lover  belated." 

"  Sweetheart !"     Back  she  started  in  swift  affright 
At  this  fond,  bold  cry,  and  the  red  turned  white 
In  her  oval  cheek.     A  moment  more, 
And,  swiftly  striding  across  the  floor, 

This  lover  belated,  who  missed  his  bride 
Seven  years  ago,  is  at  her  side  ; 
And  the  fond,  bold  voice  on  her  listening  ear, 
On  her  listening  heart,  over  every  fear, 

Like  a  rising  river,  gains  and  gains, 
While  unreckoned,  unheeded,  the  swift  night  wanes,. 
Till  the  clock  strikes  twelve  on  the  landing  stair ; 
Then  John  Wentworth  turns  with  a  gallant  air, 


LADY     WENTWORTH.  173 

And  embraces  hi?  cousin  as  a  kinsman  may, 
Though  all  the  gossips  be  lacking  that  way. 
Yet  his  parting  words,  whispered  low  in  her  ear, 
Were  never  meant  for  a  gossip  to  hear. 

But  long  before  the  spring  had  come 

To  Portsmouth  shores,  in  many  a  home 

The  gossips'  tongues  were  making  bold 

With  the  Wentworth  name  ;  and  the  story  told, 

Which  ran  through  the  town  like  a  breath  of  flame, 
Was  this — that  John  Wentworth  never  came 
To  his  cousin's  house  but  by  signal  or  sign, 
A  silken  scarf  or  a  'kerchief  fine 


Flung  out  of  the  casement,  or  at  night 
In  the  western  window  a  candle's  light. 
And  the  gossips,  observant,  would  smile,  and  say, 
"  So  !  the  sick  man  sleeps  at  this  hour  of  the  day !  " 

Or  at  evening,  when  the  candle  flares 

In  the  western  window,  "  Dame  Frances  cares 

Are  over  early,  it  seems,  to-night." 

If  Dame  Frances  caught  this  bale  and  blight 

Of  the  gossips'  tongues,  little  she  recked  : 

No  Wentworth  yet  was  ever  checked 

By  a  gossip's  tongue,  however  bold. 

But  there  comes  a  day  when  the  'kerchief's  fold 


1 74  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Is  missed  at  the  casement,  and  that  night 
No  candle  flares  its  signal-light. 
When  another  morning  dawns  again 
The  tolling  Portsmouth  bells  explain 

The  missing  candle,  the  'kerchief  fine. 
Dame  Frances  now  of  signal  or  sign 
Has  little  need  ;  in  the  chamber  there, 
Where  a  sick  man  yesterday  claimed  her  care, 

A  dead  man  lies  in  solemn  state; 
And  peering  at  the  linen  and  plate 
Downstairs,  the  neighbors,  under  their  breath, 
Talk  of  the  sick  man,  and  his  death  ; 

Of  the  widow's  prospects  ;  and  one  more  bold 
Hints  that  ere  the  year's  grown  old 
The  Wentworth  mansion  across  the  way 
Will  have  a  mistress  fine  and  gay. 

But  ere  a  month  had  passed  of  the  year, 
All  the  seamstresses  far  and  near, 
In  and  out  of  Portsmouth  town, 
Were  sewing  fast  at  a  wedding-gown 

Of  brocaded  satin,  foreign  and  rare, 
For  Dame  Frances  Atkinson  to  wear. 
"  Shame  !  "  cried  the  gossips,  far  and  wide, 
And  "  Shame  !  "  cried  the  Wentworths  in  their  pride- 


LADYWENTWORTH.  175 

All  the  Wentworth  kin  in  Hampshire  State. 
This  haste  was  unseemly;  she'd  only  to  wait 
In  her  widow's  weeds  a  year  and  a  day, 
And  not  a  gossip  could  say  her  nay. 

Then  up  she  spoke,  this  wilful  dame — 
Scornfully  spoke,  with  a  tongue  of  flame  : 
*'  Seven  years  I  have  served  the  Wentworth  pride  ; 
Seven  years  with  a  Wentworth  courage  lied 

To  the  world  with  my  smiling  face, 
To  find  at  the  end. — no  sovereign  grace 

o        o 

To  save  my  soul,  but  a  curse  alone, 
The  curse  of  a  lie  that  shamed  my  own  ! 

Cheated  and  tricked  seven  weary  years, 

Won  by  a  lie — no  lying  tears 

Have  I  to  waste,  no  time  to  wait 

On  the  man  who  dies  seven  years  too  late !  " 

Scared  and  shocked,  the  Wentworths  stared 
At  this  reckless  dame,  whose  passion  dared 
To  cast  at  the  dead  man,  scarcely  cold 
In  his  fresh-turned  grave,  these  accusals  bold. 

Scared  and  shocked,  but  never  a  word 
Of  ban  or  blame  was  ever  heard 
From  their  lips  again,  and  come  the  day 
When  my  lady  Wentworth,  fine  and  gay, 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Reigned  in  the  Wentworth  mansion  there, 
Not  a  gossip  in  Portsmouth  but  spoke  her  fair. 
But  under  their  breaths,  when  twilight  fell, 
Under  their  breaths,  they  would  sometimes  tell! 

The  old,  old  story  of  signal  and  sign, 
The  candle  flame  and  the  'kerchief  fine  ; 
And  under  their  breaths  would  croak  a  fear 
That  my  lady  had  lent  but  too  willing  an  ear 

To  the  evil  whispered  against  the  dead, 
The  doubtful  tale  so  suddenly  sped 
From  mouth  to  mouth,  while  for  yea  or  nay, 
Helpless  and  dumb  the  dead  man  lay. 

But  never  upon  my  lady's  face, 
Never  a  doubt  showed  sign  or  trace, 
As  she  looked  the  curious  gossips  down 
In  the  little  world  of  Portsmouth  town — 

Never  a  doubt  from  year  to  year, 

Never  a  doubt,  and  never  a  fear; 

For  whatever  the  truth  of  the  troubled  past, 

My  lady  had  come  to  her  own  at  last  ! 


PRISCILLA. 


PRISCILLA. 


BY  EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 


ft  HE  trained  novel  readers,  those  who  have  made 
a  business  of  it  (if  any  such  should  honor  this 
poor  little  story  with  their  attention),  will 
glunce  down  the  opening  paragraphs  for  a 
description  of  the  heroine's  tresses.  Th« 
opening  sentences  of  Miss  Braddon  are  enough 
to  show  how  important  a  thing  a  head  of  hair  is  in  the  getting 
up  of  a  heroine  for  the  popular  market.  But  as  my  heroine 
is  not  gotten  up  for  the  market,  and  as  I  cannot  possibly  re 
member  even  the  color  of  her  hair  or  her  eyes  as  I  recall  her 
now,  I  fear  I  shall  disappoint  the  "professionals,"  who  never 
feel  that  they  have  a  complete  heroine  till  the  "  long  waving 
tresses  of  raven  darkness,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ground,  en 
veloping  her  as  with  a  cloud,"  have  been  artistically  stuck  on 
by  the  author.  But  be  it  known  that  I  take  Priscilla  from 
memory,  and  not  from  imagination.  And  the  memory  of 
Priscilla,  the  best  girl  in  the  school,  the  most  gifted,  the 
most  modest,  the  most  gentle  and  true,  is  a  memory  too 
sacred  to  be  trifled  with.  I  would  not  make  one  hair  li<jht  or 

O 

dark  ;  I  would  not  change  the  shading  of  the  eye-brows. 
Priscilla  is  Priscilla  forever,  to  all  who  knew  her.  And  as  I 
cannot  tell  the  precise  color  of  her  hair  and  eyes,  I  shall  not 
invent  a  shade  for  them.  I  remember  that  she  was  on  the 
blonde  side  of  the  grand  division  line.  But  she'  \vas  not 
blonde.  She  was — Priscilla.  I  mean  to  say  that  since  you 


1 8O  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

never  lived  in  that  dear  old-fogy  Ohio  River  village  of  New 
Geneva,  and  since,  consequently,  you  never  knew  our  Pris- 
cilla,  no  words  of  mine  can  make  you  exactly  understand 
her.  Was  she  handsome?  No  —  yes.  She  was  "jimber- 
jawed  ;"  that  is,  her  lower  teeth  shut  a  little  outside  her  upper. 
Her  complexion  was  not  faultless.  Her  face  would  not  bear 
criticism.  And  yet  there  is  not  one  of  her  old  schoolmates 
that  will  not  vow  that  she  was  beautiful.  And  indeed  she 
was.  For  she  was  Priscilla.  And  I  never  can  make  you  un 
derstand  it. 

As  Priscilla  was  always  willing  to  oblige  any  one,  it  was 
only  natural  enough  that  Mrs.  Leston  should  send  for  her  to 
help  entertain  the  Marquis.  It  was  a  curious  chance  that 
threw  the  young  Marquis  d'Entremont  for  a  whole  summer 
into  the  society  of  our  little  village.  His  uncle,  who  was  his 
guardian,  a  pious  abbe,  wishing  to  remove  him  from  Paris  to 
get  him  out  of  socialistic  influences,  had  sent  him  to  New  Or 
leans,  consigned  to  the  care  of  the  great  banking-house  of 
Challeau,  Lafort  et  Compagnie.  Not  liking  to  take  the 
chances  of  yellow  fever  in  the  summer,  he  had  resolved  to 
journey  to  the  north,  and  as  Challeau,  Lafort  et  Cie.  had  a 
Correspondent  in  Henry  Leston,  the  young  lawyer,  and  as 
French  was  abundantly  spoken  in  our  Swiss  village  of  New 
Geneva,  what  more  natural  than  that  they  should  despatch  the 
Marquis  to  our  pleasant  town  of  vineyards,  giving  him  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  their  attorney,  who  fortunately  spoke 
some  book  French?  He  had  presented  the  letter,  had  been 
invited  to  dinner,  and  Priscilla  Haines,  who  had  learned 
French  in  childhood,  though  she  was  not  Swiss,  was  sent  for 
to  help  entertain  the  guest. 

I  cannot  but  fancy  that  d'Entremont  was  surprised  at  meet 
ing  fust  such  a  girl  as  Priscilla  in  a  rustic  village.  She  was 
not  abashed  at  finding  herself  vis-a-vis  with  a  nobleman,  no» 


PRISCILLA.  l8l 

did  she  seem  at  all  anxious  to  attract  his  notice.  The  vanity 
of  the  Marquis  must  have  been  a  little  hurt  at  finding  a  lady 
that  did  not  court  his  attention.  But  wounded  vanity  soon 
gave  place  to  another  surprise.  Even  Mrs.  Leston,  who  un 
derstood  not  one  word  of  the  conversation  between  her  hus 
band,  the  Marquis  and  Priscilla,  was  watching  for  this  second 
surprise,  and  did  not  fail  to  read  it  in  d'Entremont's  eyes. 
Here  was  a  young  woman  who  had  read.  She  could  admire 
Corinne,  she  could  oppose  Saint  Simon.  The  Marquis 
d'Entremont  had  resigned  himself  to  the  ennui  of  talking  to 
Swiss  farmers  about  their  vineyards,  of  listening  to  Swiss  grand 
mothers  telling  stories  of  their  childhood  in  Neufchatel  and 
Berne.  But  to  find  in  this  young  village  school  teacher  on*» 
who  could  speak,  and  listen  while  he  spoke,  of  his  favorite 
writers,  was  to  him  very  strange.  Not  that  Priscilla  had 
read  many  French  books,  for  there  were  not  many  within  her 
reach.  But  she  had  read  some,  and  she  had  read  Ste.  Beuve 
and  Grimm's  Correspondence,  and  he  who  reads  these  two 
has  heard  the  echo  of  all  the  great  voices  in  French  literature. 
And  while  David  Haines  had  lived,  his  daughter  had  wanted 
nothing  to  help  her  to  the  highest  culture. 

But  I  think  what  amazed  the  Marquis  most  was  that  Pris 
cilla  showed  no  consciousness  of  the  unusual  character  of  her 
attainments.  She  spoke  easily  and  naturally  of  what  she 
knew,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course  that  the  teacher  of  a 
primary  school  should  have  read  Corneille,  and  should  be 
able  to  combat  Saint-Simonism.  As  the  dinner  drew  to  a 
close,  Leston  lifted  his  chair  round  where  his  wife  sat,  and 
interpreted  the  brilliant  conversation  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table. 

I  suspect  that  Saint  Simon  had  lost  some  of  his  hold  upon 
the  Marquis  since  his  arrival  in  a  country  where  life  is  more 
beautiful  and  the  manner  of  thought  more  practical.  At  an}' 


1 82  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

rate,  he  dated  the  decline  of  his  socialistic  opinions  from  his 
discussion  with  Priscilla  Haines. 

The  next  Sunday  morning  he  strolled  out  of  the  Le  Vert 
house,  breathing  the  sweet  air  perfumed  with  the  blossoms  of 
a  thousand  apple-trees.  For  what  yard  is  there  in  New 
Geneva  that  has  not  apple  trees  and  grape-vines?  And 
every  family  in  the  village  keeps  a  cow,  and  every  cow 
wears  a  bell,  and  every  bell  is  on  a  different  key ;  so  that 
the  three  things  that  penetrated  the  senses  of  the  Marquis  on 
this  Sunday  morning  were  the  high  hills  that  stood  sentinels 
on  every  hand  about  the  valley  in  which  New  Geneva  stood, 
the  smell  of  the  apple  blossoms,  and  the  tinkle  and  tankle  and 
tonkle  of  hundreds  of  bells  on  the  cows  grazing  on  the  "  com 
mons,"  as  the  open  lots  were  called.  On  this  almost  pain 
fully  quiet  morning,  d'Eutremont  noticed  the  people  going  one 
way  and  another  to  the  Sunday  schools  in  the  three  churches. 
Just  as  he  came  to  the  pump  that  stood  in  front  of  the  "  public 
square,"  he  met  Priscilla.  At  her  heels  were  ten  ragged  little 
ruffians,  whom  she  was  accustomed  to  have  come  to  her  house 
every  Sunday  morning  and  walk  with  her  to  Sunday  school. 

"You  are  then  a  Sister  of  Charity  also?  "  he  said  in  French, 
bowing  low  with  sincere  admiration  as  he  passed  her.  And 
then  to  himself  the  young  Marquis  reflected:  "We  Saint- 
Simonists  theorize  and  build  castles  in  Spain  for  poor  people, 
but  we  do  not  take  hold  of  them."  He  walked  clear  round 
the  square,  and  then  followed  the  steps  of  Priscilla  into  the 
little  brick  Methodist  church,  which  in  that  day  had  neither 
steeple  nor  bell,  which  had  nothing  church-like  about  it  ex 
cept  the  two  arched  front  windows.  There  was  not  even  a 
fence  to  enclose  it,  nor  an  evergreen  nor  an  ivy  about  it ; 
only  a  few  black  locusts.  For  the  Congregational  puritanism 
of  New  England  was  never  so  hard  a  puritanism  as  the 
Methodist  puritanism  of  a  generation  ago  in  the  West — a 


PRISCILLA.  183 

puritanism  that  forbade  jewelry,  that  stripped  the  artificial 
flowers  out  of  the  bonnets  of  country  girls,  that  expelled  and 
even  yet  expels  a  country  boy  for  looking  with  wonder  at  a 
man  hanging  head  downward  from  a  trapeze  in  a  circus  tent. 
No  other  church,  not  even  the  Quaker,  ever  laid  its  hand 
more  entirely  upon  the  whole  life  of  its  members.  The  dead 
hand  of  Wesley  has  been  stronger  than  the  living  hand  of 
any  pope. 

Upon  the  hard,  open-backed,  unpainted  and  unvarnished 
oak  benches,  which  seemed  devised  to  produce  discomfort, 
sat  the  Sunday-school  classes,  and  upon  one  of  these,  near 
the  door,  d'Entremont  sat  down.  He  looked  at  the  bare 
walls,  at  the  white  pulpit,  at  the  carpetless  floors,  at  the 
general  ugliness  of  things,  the  box-stove,  which  stood  in  the 
only  aisle,  the  tin  chandeliers  with  their  half-burned  candles, 
the  eight-by-ten  lights  of  glass  in  the  windows,  and  he  was 
favorably  impressed.  With  a  quick  conscience  he  had  often 
felt  the  frivolous  emptiness  of  a  worldly  life,  and  had  turned 
toward  the  religion  of  his  uncle  the  abbe  only  to  turn  away 
again  disgusted  with  the  frivolity  of  the  religious  pomp  that 
he  saw.  But  here  was  a  religion  not  only  without  the  attrac 
tions  of -sensuous  surrounding,  but  a  religion  that  maintained 
its  vitality  despite  a  repelling  plainness,  not  to  say  a  repulsive 
ugliness,  in  its  external  forms.  For  could  he  doubt  the  force 
of  a  religious  principle  that  had  divested  every  woman  in  the 
little  church  of  every  ornament?  Doubtless  he  felt  the  nar 
rowness  that  could  read  the  Scriptural  injunction  so  literally, 
but  none  could  doubt  the  strength  of  a  religious  principle  that 
submitted  to  such  self-denial.  And  then  there  was  Priscilla, 
with  all  her  gifts,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  her  boys,  gathered 
from  that  part  of  the  village  known  as  "Slabtown."  Yes, 
there  must  be  something  genuine  in  this  religious  life,  and  its 


1 84  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

entire  contrast  to  all  that  the  Marquis  had  known  and  grown 
weary  of,  attracted  him. 

As  eleven  o'clock  drew  on,  the  little  church  filled  with  peo 
ple.  The  men  sat  on  one  side  the  aisle  and  the  women  on 
the  other.  The  old  brethren  and  sisters,  and  generally  those 
who  prayed  in  prayer  meeting  and  spoke  in  love-feast,  sat 
near  the  front,  many  of  them  on  the  cross-seats  near  the 
pulpit,  which  were  thence  said  by  scoffers  to  be  the  "Amen 
corners."  Any  one  other  than  a  leader  of  the  hosts  of  Israel 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  taking  a  seat  in  the  pulpit  as 
on  one  of  these  chief  seats  in  the  synagogue.  The  Marquis 
sat  still  and  watched  the  audience  gather,  while  one  of  the 
good  brethren  led  the  congregation  in  singing, 

"When  I  can  read  my  title  clear," 

which  hymn  was  the  usual  voluntary  at  the  opening  of 
service.  Then  the  old  minister  said,  "Let  us  continue  the 
worship  of  God  by  singing  hymn  on  page  554."  He  "lined" 
the  hymn,  that  is,  he  read  each  couplet  before  it  was  sung. 
With  the  coming  in  of  hymn-books  and  other  new-fangled 
things  the  good  old  custom  of  "lining  the  hymn"  has  disap 
peared.  But  on  that  Sunday  morning  the  Marquis  d'Entre- 
mont  thought  he  had  never  heard  anything  more  delightful 
than  these  simple  melodies  sung  thus  lustily  by  earnest  voices. 
The  reading  of  each  couplet  by  the  minister  before  it  was 
sung,  seemed  to  him  a  sort  of  recitative.  He  knew  enough  of 
English  to  find  that  the  singing  was  hopeful  and  triumphant. 
"Wearied  with  philosophy  and  blase  with  the  pomp  of  the 
world,  he  wished  that  he  had  been  a  villager  in  New  Geneva, 
and  that  he  might  have  had  the  faith  to  sing  of  the 

"  —  land  of  pure  delight 
Where  saints  immortal  reign," 


PRISCILLA.  185 

with  as  much  earnestness  as  his  friend  Priscilla  on  the  other 
side  of  the  aisle.  In  the  prayer  that  followed,  d'Entremont 
noticed  that  all  the  church  members  knelt,  and  that  the  hearty 
amens  were  not  intoned,  but  were  as  spontaneous  as  the  rest 
of  the  service.  After  reverently  reading  a  chapter  the  old 
minister  said,  "  Please  sing,  without  lining, 

"  '  A  charge  to  keep  I  have ; '  " 

and  then  the  old  tune  of  "  Kentucky  "  was  sung  with  anima 
tion,  after  which  came  the  sermon,  of  which  the  Marquis  un 
derstood  but  few  words,  though  he  understood  the  pantomine 
by  which  the  venerable  minister  represented  the  return  of  the 
prodigal  and  the  Welcome  he  received.  When  he  saw  the 
tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  hearers,  and  heard  the  half-repressed 
"Bless  the  Lord"  of  an  old  brother  or  sister,  and  saw  them 
glance  joyfully  at  each  others'  faces  as  the  sermon  went  on, 
he  was  strangely  impressed  with  the  genuineness  of  the  feel 
ing. 

But  the  class  meeting  that  followed,  to  which  he  remained, 
impressed  him  still  more.  The  venerable  Scotchman  who 
led  it  had  a  face  that  beamed  with  sweetness  and  intelligence. 
It  was  fortunate  that  the  Marquis  saw  so  good  a  specimen. 
In  fact,  Priscilla  trembled  lest  Mr.  Boreas,  the  stern,  hard- 
featured  "  exhorter,"  should  have  been  invited  to  lead.  But 
as  the  sweet-faced  old  leader  called  upon  one  and  another  to 
speak,  and  as  many  spoke  with  streaming  eyes,  d'Entremont 
quivered  with  sympathy.  He  was  not  so  blind  that  he  could 
not  see  the  sham  and  cant  of  some  of  the  speeches,  but  in 
general  there  was  much  earnestness  and  truth.  When  Pris 
cilla  rose  in  her  turn  and  spoke,  with  downcast  eyes,  he  felt 
the  beauty  and  simplicity  of  her  religious  life.  And  he 
rightly  judged  that  from  the  soil  of  a  culte  so  severe, 
must  grow  some  noble  and  heroic  lives. 


1 86  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Last  of  all  the  class  leader  reached  the  Marquis,  whom  he 
did  not  know. 

"Will  our  strange  brother  tell  us  how  it  is  with  him  to 
day?"  he  asked. 

Priscilla  trembled.  What  awful  thing  might  happen  when 
a  class-leader  invited  a  marquis,  who  could  speak  no  English, 
and  who  was  a  disciple  of  Saint  Simon,  to  tell  his  religious 
experience,  was  more  than  she  could  divine.  If  the  world 
had  come  to  an  end  in  consequence  of  such  a  concatenation, 
I  think  she  would  not  have  been  surprised.  But  nothing  of 
the  sort  occurred.  To  her  astonishment  the  Marquis  rose 
and  said :  — 

"Is  it  that  any  one  can  speak  French?  " 

A  brother  who  was  a  member  of  one  of  the  old  Swiss  fami 
lies  volunteered  his  services  as  interpreter,  and  d'Entremont 
proceeded  to  tell  them  how  much  he  had  been  interested  in 
the  exercises ;  that  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  in 
such  a  meeting,  and  that  he  wished  he  had  the  simple  faith 
which  they  showed. 

Then  the  old  leader  said,  "Let  us  engage  in  prayer  for  our 
strange  brother." 

And  the  Marquis  bowed  his  knees  upon  the  hard  floor. 

He  could  not  understand  much  that  was  said,  but  he  knew 
chat  they  were  praying  for  him :  that  this  white-haired  class- 
leader,  and  the  old  ladies  in  the  corner,  and  Priscilla,  were 
interceding  with  the  Father  of  all  for  him.  He  felt  more  con 
fidence  in  the  efficacy  of  their  prayers  than  he  had  ever  had 
in  all  the  intercessions  of  the  saints  of  which  he  was  told 
when  a  boy.  For  surely  God  would  hear  such  as  Priscilla  ! 

It  happened  not  long  after  this  that  d'Entremont  was  drawn 
even  more  nearly  to  this  simple  Methodist  life,  which  had  al 
ready  made  such  an  impression  on  his  imagination,  by  an  inci 
dent  which  would  make  a  chapter  if  this  story  were  intended 


PRISCILLA.  187 

for  the  "New  York  Weekly  Dexter."  Indeed,  the  story  of  his 
peril  in  a  storm  and  freshet  on  Indian  Creek,  and  of  his 
deliverance  by  the  courage  of  Henry  Stevens,  is  so  well 
suited  to  that  periodical  and  others  of  its  class,  that  I  am 
almost  sorry  that  Mrs.  Eden,  or  Cobb,  Jr.,  or  Optic,  was  not 
the  author  of  this  story.  Either  of  them  could  make  a 
chapter  which  would  bear  the  title  cf«"A  Thrilling  Incident." 
But  with  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  anything  and  every 
thing  "thrilling,"  this  present  writer  can  only  say  in  plainest 
prose  and  without  a  single  startling  epithet,  that  this  incident 
made  the  young  Marquis  the  everlasting  friend  of  his  deliv 
erer,  Henry  Stevens,  who  happened  to  be  a  zealous  Metho 
dist,  and  about  his  own  age. 

The  effort  of  the  two  friends  to  hold  intercourse  was  a  curi 
ous  spectacle.  Not  only  did  they  speak  different  languages, 
but  they  lived  in  different  worlds.  Not  only  did  d'Entremont 
speak  a  very  limited  English  while  Stevens  spoke  no  French, 
but  d'Entremont's  life  and  thought  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  life  of  Stevens,  except  the  one  thing  that  made  a 
friendship  possible.  They  were  both  generous,  manly  men, 
and  each  felt  a  strong  drawing  to  the  other.  So  it  came 
about  that  when  they  tired  of  the  Marquis'  English,  and  of 
die  gulf  between  their  ideas,  they  used  to  call  on  Priscilla  at 
her  home  with  her  mother  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 
She  was  an  interpreter  indeed  !  For  with  the  keenest  sympa 
thy  she  entered  into  the  world  in  which  the  Marquis  lived, 
which  had  always  been  a  sort  of  intellectual  paradise  to  her. 
It  seemed  strange,  indeed,  to  meet  a  living  denizen  of  a  world 
that  seemed  to  her  impossible  except  in  books.  And  as  for 
the  sphere  in  which  Stevens  moved,  it  was  her  own.  He  and 
she  had  been  schoolmates  from  childhood,  had  looked  on  the 
same  green  hills,  known  the  same  people,  been  moulded  of 
the  same  strong  religious  feeling.  Nothing  was  more  delight- 


188  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

ful  to  d'Entremont  than  to  be  able  to  talk  to  Stevens,  unless  it 
was  to  have  so  good  an  excuse  for  conversation  with  Priscilla  ; 
and  nothing  was  so  pleasant  to  Henry  Stevens  as  to  be  able 
to  understand  the  Marquis,  unless  it  was  to  talk  with  Priscilla  ; 
while  to  Priscilla  those  were  golden  moments,  in  which  she 
passed  like  a  quick-winged  messenger  between  her  own  na 
tive  world  and  the  world  that  she  knew  only  in  books,  be 
tween  the  soul  of  one  friend  and  that  of  another.  And  thus 
grew  up  a  triple  friendship,  a  friendship  afterward  sorely 
tried.  For  how  strange  it  is  that  what  brings  together  at  one 
time  may  be  a  wall  of  division  at  another. 

I  am  not  writing  an  essay  on  Christian  experience.  I  can 
not  pretend  to  explain  just  how  it  came  about.  Doubtless 
Henry  Stevens'  influence  had  something  to  do  with  it,  though 
I  feel  sure  Priscilla's  had  more.  Doubtless  the  Marquis  was 
naturally  susceptible  to  religious  influences,  and  I  cannot  but 
feel  that  after  all  he  was  led  by  the  gentle  drawings  of  the 
Divine  Oracle  in  his  own  breast.  But  the  erratic  opinions, 
never  very  deeply  rooted,  and  at  most  but  a  reaction  from  a 
religion  of  "  postures  and  impostures,"  disappeared,  and  there 
came  a  sense  of  unworthiness  and  a  sense  of  trust.  They 
came  simultaneously,  I  think ;  certainly  d'Entremont  could 
never  give  any  chronological  order  to  the  two  experiences. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  drawn  to  the  little  class  meeting,  which 
seemed  to  him  so  simple  a  confessional  that  all  his  former 
notions  of  "liberty,  fraternity  and  equality  "  were  satisfied  by 
it.  I  believe  he  became  a  "  probationer,"  but  his  creed  was 
never  quite  settled  enough  for  him  to  accept  of  "  full  member 
ship." 

Some  of  the  old  folks  could  not  refrain  from  expressions  of 
triumph  that  "  the  Lord  had  got  a-hold  of  that  French  infi 
del  ; "  and  old  Sister  Goodenough  seized  his  hand,  and,  with 
many  sighs  and  much  upturning  of  the  eyes,  exhorted  him 


PRISCILLA.  1 89 

*  Brother  Markus  !  Give  up  everything  !  Give  up  everything, 
and  come  out  from  the  world  and  be  separated  ! "  Which -led 
d'Entremont  to  remark  to  Stevens  as  they  walked  away,  that 
"  Madame  Goodenough  was  vare  curus  indeed  !  "  And  Brother 
Boreas,  the  exhorter,  who  had  the  misfortune  not  to  have  a 
business  reputation  without  blemish,  but  who  made  up  for  it 
by  rigid  scruples  in  regard  to  a  melodeon  in  the  church,  and 
by  a  vicarious  conscience  which  was  kindly  kept  at  every 
body's  service  but  his  own,  old  Brother  Boreas  always  re 
marked  in  regard  to  the  Marquis,  that "  as  for  his  part  he  liked 
a  deeper  repentance  and  a  sounder  conversion."  But  the 
gray-haired  old  Scotch  class  leader,  whose  piety  was  at  a  pre 
mium  everywhere,  would  take  d'Entremont's  hand  and  talk  of 
indifferent  subjects  while  he  beamed  on  him  his  affection  and 
Christian  fellowship. 

To  the  Marquis,  Priscilla  was  a  perpetual  marvel.  More 
brilliant  women  he  had  known  in  Paris,  more  devout  women 
he  had  seen  there  ;  but  a  woman  so  gifted  and  so  devout,  and 
above  all,  a  woman  so  true,  so  modest,  and  of  such  perfect 
delicacy  of  feeling,  he  had  never  known.  And  how  poorly 
these  words  describe  her  !  For  she  was  Priscilla  ;  and  all  who 
knew  her  will  understand  how  much  more  that  means  than 
any  adjectives  of  mine.  Certainly  Henry  Stevens  did,  for  he 
had  known  her  always,  and  would  have  loved  her  always  had 
he  dared.  It  was  only  now,  as  she  interpreted  him  to  the 
Marquis  and  the  Marquis  to  him,  idealizing  and  elevating  the 
thoughts  of  both,  that  he  surrendered  himself  to  hope.  And 
so,  toward  the  close  of  the  summer,  affairs  came  to  this  awk 
ward  posture,  that  these  two  sworn  friends  loved  the  same 
ivoman. 

D'Entremont  discovered  this  first.  More  a  man  of  the 
world  than  Henry  Stevens,  he  read  the  other's  face  and  voice. 
He  was  perturbed.  Had  it  occurred  two  years  before,  he 


19°  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

might  have  settled  the  matter  easily,  by  a  duel  for  instance. 
And  even  now  his  passion  got  the  better  for  a  while  of  all  his 
good  feelings  and  Christian  resolutions.  When  he  got  back 
to  the  Le  Vert  house  with  his  unpleasant  discovery,  he  was 
burning  like  a  furnace.  In  spite  of  a  rain-storm  just  begin 
ning  and  a  dark  night,  he  strode  out  and  walked  he  knew  not 
whither.  He  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how,  on  the  bank  of 
the  river.  Seizing  an  old  board  for  a  paddle,  he  unloosed  a 
skiff  and  pushed  out  into  the  river.  How  to  advance  himself 
over  his  rival  was  his  first  thought.  But  this  darkness  and 
this  beating  rain  and  this  fierce  loneliness,  reminded  him  of 
that  night  when  he  had  clung  desperately  to  the  abutment  of 
the  bridge  that  spanned  Indian  Creek,  and  when  the  courage 
and  self-possession  of  Henry  Stevens  had  rescued  him.  Could 
he  be  the  rival  of  a  man  who  had  gone  down  into  that  flood 
that  he  might  save  the  exhausted  Marquis? 

Then  he  hated  himself.  Why  had  he  not  drowned  that 
night  on  Indian  Creek  ?  And  with  this  feeling  of  self-disgust 
added  to  his  general  mental  misery,  and  the  physical  misery 
that  the  rain  brought  to  him,  there  crime  the  great  temptation 
to  write  "Fin  "  in  French  fashion,  by  jumping  into  the  water. 
But  something  in  the  influence  of  Priscilla  and  that  class 
meeting  caused  him  to  take  a  better  resolution,  and  he  re 
turned  to  the  hotel. 

The  next  day  he  sent  for  Henry  Stevens  to  come  to  his 
room. 

"  Henry,  I  am  going  to  leave  to-night  on  the  mail  boat.  I 
am  going  back  to  New  Orleans,  and  thence  to  France.  You 
love  Priscilla.  You  are  a  noble  man ;  you  will  make  her 
happy.  I  have  read  your  love  in  your  face.  Meet  me  at  the 
river  to-night.  When  you  are  ready  to  be  married,  let  me  know, 
that  I  may  send  some  token  of  my  love  for  both.  Do  not  tell 


PRISCILLA.  191 

mademoiselle  that  I  am  going ;  but  tell  her  good-bye  for  me 
afterwards.  Go  now,  I  must  pack." 

Henry  went  out  stupefied.  What  did  it  mean  ?  And  why 
was  he  half-glad  that  d'Entremont  was  going  ?  By  degrees  he 
got  the  better  of  his  selfishness.  In  fact,  he  had  the  habit  of 
keeping  his  selfishness  under  in  little  things,  so  that  the  vic 
tory  in  a  great  thing  was  not  so  difficult. 

"Marquis  d'Entremont,"  he  said,  breaking  into  his  room, 
"you  must  not  go  away.  You  love  Priscilla.  You  have 
everything — learning,  money,  travel.  I  have  nothing." 

"Nothing  but  a  good  heart,  which  I  have  not,"  said  d'En 
tremont. 

"I  will  never  marry  Priscilla,"  said  Henry,  "unless  she  de 
liberately  chooses  to  have  me  in  preference  to  you.'* 

My  readers  will  say  that  this  incident,  of  two  men  unselfish 
in  an  affair  of  this  sort,  is  impossible.  I  should  never  have 
written  it  but  that  this  incident  is  fact. 

To  this  arrangement,  so  equitable,  the  Marquis  consented* 
and  the  matter  was  submitted  to  Priscilla  by  letter.  Could 
she  love  either,  and  if  either,  which?  She  asked  a  week  for 
deliberation. 

It  was  not  easy  to  decide.  By  all  her  habits  of  thought 
and  feeling,  by  all  her  prejudices,  by  all  her  religious  life,  she 
was  drawn  toward  the  peaceful  and  perhaps  prosperous  life 
that  opened  before  her  as  the  wife  of  Henry  Stevens,  living  in 
her  native  village,  near  to  her  mother,  surrounded  by  her  old 
friends,  and  with  the  best  of  Christian  men  for  a  husband- 
But  by  all  the  clamor  of  her  intellectual  nature  for  something 
better  than  her  narrow  life — by  all  her  joy  in  the  conversation 
of  d'Entremont,  the  only  man  her  equal  in  culture  she  had  ever 
known,  she  felt  drawn  to  be  the  wife  of  the  Marquis.  But  if 
there  were  roses,  there  were  thorns  in  such  a  path.  The  vil 
lage  girl  knew  that  Madame  la  Marquise  must  lead  a  life  very 


IQ2  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

different  from  any  she  had  known.  She  must  bear  with  a 
husband  whose  mind  was  ever  in  a  state  of  unrest  and  scep 
ticism,  and  she  must  meet  the  great  world. 

In  truth  there  were  two  Priscillas.  There  was  the  Priscilla 
that  her  neighbors  knew,  the  Priscilla  that  went  to  church,  the 
Priscilla  that  taught  Primary  School  No.  3.  There  was  the 
other  Priscilla  that  read  Chaucer  and  Shakspeare,  Moliere 
and  De  Stael.  With  this  Priscilla,  New  Geneva  had  nothing 
to  do.  And  it  was  the  doubleness  of  her  nature  that  aggravat 
ed  her  indecision. 

Then  her  conscience  came  in.  Because  there  might  be 
worldly  attractions  on  the  one  side,  she  leaned  to  the  other. 
To  reject  a  poor  suitor  and  accept  a  rich  and  titled  one,  had 
something  of  treason  in  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  she  sent  for  them  both.  Henry  Ste 
vens'  flat-boat  had  been  ready  to  start  for  New  Orleans  for 
two  days.  And  Challeau,  Lafort  &  Cie.  were  expecting  the 
Marquis,  who  was  in  some  sort  a  ward  of  theirs.  Henry  Ste 
vens  and  the  Marquis  Antoine  d'Entremont  walked  side  by 
iide,  in  an  awkward  silence,  to  the  little  vine-covered  cottage. 
Of  that  interview  I  do  not  know  enough  to  write  fully.  But  I 
know  that  Priscilla  said  such  words  as  these  :  — 

"  This  is  an  awful  responsibility.  I  suppose  a  judge  trem 
bles  when  he  must  pass  sentence  of  death.  But  I  must  make 
a  decision  that  involves  the  happiness  of  both  my  friends  and 
myself.  I  cannot  do  it  now.  God  does  not  give  me  to  see 
my  duty  clearly,  and  nothing  but  duty  should  speak  in  mak 
ing  such  a  decision.  Will  you  wait  until  you  both  return  in 
the  spring  ?  I  have  a  reason  that  I  cannot  explain  for  wishing 
this  matter  postponed.  God  will  decide  for  me,  perhaps." 

I  do  not  know  that  she  said  just  these  words ;  and  I  know 
she  did  not  say  them  at  all  once.  But  so  they  parted.  And 
Miss  Nancy  More,  who  retailed  ribbons  and  scandal,  and 


PRISCILLA.  Ig3 

whose  only  effort  at  mental  improvement  had  been  the  pluck 
ing  out  of  the  hairs  contiguous  to  her  forehead,  that  she  might 
look  intellectual,  —  Miss  Nancy  More  from  her  look-out  at  the 
window  descried  the  two  friends  walking  away  from  Mrs. 
Haines'  cottage,  and  remarked,  as  she  had  often  remarked 
before,  that  it  was  "  absolutely  scandalous  for  a  young  woman 
who  was  a  professor  to  have  two  beaux  at  once,  and  such 
good  friends,  too  !  " 

I  have  noticed  that  gifted  girls  like  Priscilla  have  a  back 
ground  in  some  friend,  intelligent,  quiet,  restful.  Anna  Poin- 
dexter,  a  dark,  thoughtful,  and  altogether  excellent  girl,  was 
sometimes  spoken  of  as  "  Priscilla's  double ; "  but  she  was 
rather  Priscilla's  opposite  :  all  her  gifts  were  complementary 
to  those  of  her  friend.  The  two  were  all  but  inseparable  ;  and 
so,  when  Priscilla  found  herself  the  next  evening  on  the  bank 
of  the  river,  she  naturally  found  Anna  with  her.  Slowly  the 
flat-boat,  of  which  Henry  Stevens  was  owner  and  captain, 
drifted  by,  while  the  three  or  four  men  at  each  long  oar  strode 
back  and  forward  on  the  deck  as  they  urged  the  boat  on. 
Henry  was  standing  on  the  elevated  bench  made  for  the  pilot, 
holding  the  long  "steering-oar"  and  guiding  the  craft.  As  his 
manly  form  in  the  western  sunlight  attracted  their  attention, 
both  the  girls  were  struck  with  admiration  for  the  noble  fellow. 
Both  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  and  Henry  returned  the  adieu 
by  swinging  his  hat.  So  intent  was  he  on  watching  them  that 
he  forgot  his  duty,  and  one  of  the  men  was  obliged  to  call  out, 
"Swing  her  round,  captain,  or  the  mail-boat  '11  sink  us." 

Hardly  was  the  boat  swung  out  of  the  way  when  the  tall- 
chimneyed  mail-boat  swept  by. 

"See  the  Marquis,"  cried  Anna,  and  again  adieux  were 
waved ;  and  the  Marquis  stepped  to  the  guard  and  called  out 
to  Henry,  "I'll  see  you  in  New  Orleans  ;"  and  the  swift  steamer 
immediately  bore  him  out  of  speaking  distance.  And  Henry 


194  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

watched  him  disappear,  with  a  choking  feeling  that  thus  the 
nobleman  was  to  outstrip  him  in  life. 

"See  !  "  said  Anna,  "you  are  a  lucky  girl.  You  have  your 
choice :  you  can  go  through  life  on  the  steamboat  or  on  the 
flat-boat.  Of  course  you'll  go  b^  steam." 

"There  are  explosions  on  steamboats  sometimes,"  said  Pris- 
cilla.  Then  turning,  she  noticed  a  singular  expression  on 
Anna's  face.  Her  insight  \vas  quick,  and  she  said,  "Confess 
that  you  would  choose  the  flat-boat."  And  Anna  turned  away. 

"Two  strings  to  her  bow,  or  two  beaux  to  her  string,  I  should 
say,"  and  she  did  say  it ;  for  this  was  Miss  More's  comment  on 
the  fact  which  she  had  just  learned,  that  Miss  .Haines  had 
received  letters  from  "  the  lower  country,"  the  handwriting  on 
the  directions  of  which  indicated  that  she  had  advices  from 
both  her  friends.  But  poor  Miss  More,  with  never  a  string 
to  her  bow,  and  never  a  beau  to  her  string,  might  be  forgiven 
for  shooting  arrows  that  did  no  harm. 

There  was  a  time  when  Priscilla  had  letters  from  only  one. 
Henry  was  very  sick,  and  d'Entremont  wrote  bulletins  of  his 
condition  to  Priscillra  and  to  his  family.  In  one  of  these  it 
was  announced  that  he  was  beyond  recovery,  and  Priscilla 
and  Anna  mingled  their  tears  together.  Then  there  came  a 
letter  that  he  was  better.  Then  he  was  worse  again ;  and 
then  better. 

In  those  days  the  mail  was  brought  wholly  by  steamboats, 
and  it  took  many  days  for  intelligence  to  come.  But  the  next 
letter  that  Priscilla  had  was  from  Henry  Stevens  himself.  It 
was  filled  from  first  to  last  with  praises  of  the  Marquis  :  how 
he  had  taken  Henry  out  of  his  boarding  place,  put  him  in  his 
own  large  room  in  the  St.  Charles ;  how  he  had  nursed  him 
with  more  than  a  brother's  tenderness,  scarcely  sleeping  at  all ; 
how  he  had  sold  his  cargo,  relieved  his  mind  of  care,  em- 


PRISCILLA.  195 

ployed  the  most  eminent  physicians,  and  anticipated  his  every 
want — all  this,  and  more,  the  letter  told. 

And  the  next  steamboat  brought  Henry,  wellnigh  restored, 
and  his  noble  nurse.  Both  were  impatient  to  learn  the  deci 
sion  of  Priscilla ;  each  was  sure  the  other  was  to  carry  off  the 
prize. 

And  so  they  walked  together,  the  day  after  their  arrival,  to 
the  little  cottage.  The  conversation  was  begun  by  each  of  the 
gentlemen  expressing  his  conviction  that  her  decision  was 
against  him,  and  offering  to  retire. 

Priscilla  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  a  minute.  Then  she 
began:  "I  told  you,  my  friends,  that  I  thought  God  would 
decide  for  me.  He  has.  I  can  marry  neither  of  you." 

The  two  friends  looked  at  one  another  in  doubt  and  amaze 
ment. 

"  Three  sisters,  four  brothers,  and  my  father  died  of  pul 
monary  disease.  Of  eight  children,  I  only  am  left,  and  in 
three  mouths  my  mother  will  be  childless.  God  has  decided 
for  me.  Why  should  I  give  either  of  you  pain  by  making  a 
decision?" 

For  the  first  time,  in  the  imperfect  light,  they  noticed  the 
flushed  cheeks,  and  for  the  first  time  they  detected  the  quick 
breathing.  It  was  a  sad  hour ;  and  when  they  walked  away, 
the  two  friends  were  nearer  than  ever,  for  nothing  brings  souls 
together  so  much  as  a  common  sorrow. 

And  as  day  after  day  the  two  friends  visited  her  in  com 
pany,  the  public,  and  particularly  that  part  of  the  public  which 
peeped  out  of  Miss  Nancy  More's  windows,  was  not  a  little 
mystified.  Miss  More  thought  a  girl  who  was  drawing  near 
to  the  solemn  and  awful  realities  of  eternal  bliss  should  let 
such  worldly  vanities  as  Markusses  alone  ! 

A  singular  change  came  over  Priscilla  in  one  regard.  As 
the  prospect  of  life  faded  out,  she  was  no  longer  in  danger  of 


196  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

being  tempted  by  the  title  and  wealth  of  the  Marquis.  She 
could  be  sure  that  her  heart  was  not  bribed.  And  when  this 
restraint  of  a  conscience  abnormally  sensitive  was  removed,  it 
became  every  day  more  arid  more  clear  to  her  that  she  loved 
d'Entremont.  Of  all  whom  she  had  ever  known,  he  was  a 
companion.  And  as  he  brought  her  choice  passages  from 
favorite  writers  every  day,  and  as  her  mind  grew  with  un 
wonted  rapidity  under  the  influence  of  that  strange  disease 
which  shakes  the  body  down  while  it  ripens  the  soul,  she  felt 
more  and  more  that  she  was  gi owing  out  of  sympathy  with 
all  that  was  narrow  and  provincial  in  her  former  life,  and  into 
sympathy  with  God's  great  world,  and  with  Antoine  d'Entre 
mont,  who  was  the  representative  of  the  world  to  her. 

This  rapidly  growing  gulf  between  his  own  intellectual, life 
and  that  of  Priscilla,  Henry  Stevens  felt  keenly.  But  there  is 
one  great  compensation  for  a  soul  like  Henry's.  Men  and 
women  of  greater  gifts  might  outstrip  him  in  intellectual 
growth.  He  could  not  add  one  cell  to  his  brain,  or  make  the 
slightest  change  in  his  temperament.  But  neither  the  Marquis 
nor  Priscilla  could  excel  him  in  that  gift  of  noble  generosity 
which  does  not  always  go  with  genius,  and  which  is  not  de 
nied  to  the  man  of  the  plainest  gifts.  He  wrote  to  the  Mar 
quis  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  —  You  are  a  good  and  generous  friend.  I  have  read 
in  her  voice  and  her  eyes  what  the  decision  ot  Priscilla  must  have  been.  If  I 
had  not  been  blind.  I  ought  to  have  seen  it  before  in  the  difference  between 
us.  Now  I  know  that  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  have  that  noble  woman 
die  your  wife.  I  doubt  not  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  her.  Do  you  think  it  will 
be  any  consolation  to  me  to  have  been  an  obstacle  in  the  way?  I  hope  you  do 
not  think  so  meanly  of  me.  and  that  you  and  Priscilla  will  give  me  the  only 
consolation  I  can  have  in  our  common  sorrow —  the  feeling  that  I  have  been 
able  to  make  her  last  days  more  comfortable  and  your  sorrow  more  bearable. 
If  you  refuse,  I  shall  always  reproach  myself.  HENRY." 

I  need  not  tell  of  the  discussions  that  ensued.     But  it  was 


PRISCILLA.  197 

concluded  that  it  was  best  for  all  three  that  Priscilla  and  the 
Marquis  should  be  married,  much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss 
Nancy  More,  who  thought  that  "she'd  better  be  sayin'  hei 
prayers.  What  good  would  it  do  to  be  a  Marchoness,  and  all 
that,  when  she  was  in  her  coffin  ?  " 

A  wedding  in  prospect  of  death  is  more  affecting  than  a 
fuueral.  Only  Henry  Stevens  and  Anna  Poindexter  were  to 
be  present.  Priscilla's  mother  had  completed  the  arrange 
ments,  blinded  by  tears.  I  think  she  could  have  dressed  Pris 
cilla  for  her  coffin  with  less  suffering.  The  white  dress  looked 
so  like  a  shroud,  under  those  sunken  cheeks  as  white  as  the 
dress !  Once  or  twice  Priscilla  had  drawn  her  mother's  head 
to  her  bosom  and  wept. 

"  Poor  mother  !"  she  would  say,  "so  soon  to  be  alone.  But 
Antoine  will  be  your  son." 

There  was  one  more  at  the  wedding  than  was  intended. 
The  family  physician  was  there ;  for,  just  as  the  dressing  of 
the  pale  bride  was  completed,  there  came  one  of  those  sudden 
breakdowns  to  which  a  consumptive  is  so  liable.  The  doctor 
said  that  there  was  internal  hemorrhage,  and  gave  but  a  few 
hours  of  life.  When  the  Marquis  came  he  was  heart-broken 
to  see  her  lying  there,  so  still,  so  white — dying.  She  took  his 
hand.  She  beckoned  to  Anna  and  Henry  Stevens  to  stand  by 
her,  and  then,  with  tear-blinded  eyes,  the  old  minister  married 
them  for  eternity !  Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  ten  little 
Sunday-school  boys  from  Slabtown  marched  in.  Each  of 
them  had  a  bouquet  provided  by  Henry  Stevens  for  the  wed 
ding.  When  the  leader  of  the  file  saw  her  so  sick  he  began 
to  cry.  She  took  his  bouquet  and  kissed  him.  Then  the  little 
fellow  rushed  out,  weeping  piteously.  Each  of  the  others 
followed  his  example. 

Feeling  life  ebbing,  she  took  the  hand  of  the  Marquis. 
Then,  holding  to  the  hand  of  d'Entremont,  she  beckoned 


198  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Henry  to  come  near.  As  he  bent  over  her  she  said,  looking 
significantly  at  the  Marquis,  "  Henry,  God  bless  you,  my  noble- 
hearted  friend ! "  and  as  Henry  turned  away,  the  Marquis  put 
his  arm  about  him  and  said  gratefully,  "Henry,  God  will  bless 
you." 

Priscilla's  nature  abhorred  anything  dramatic  in  dying,  or 
rather  she  did  not  think  of  effect  at  all ;  so  she  made  no  fine 
speeches.  But  when  she  had  ceased  to  breathe,  the  old 
preacher  said,  "The  bridegroom  has  come."  And  he  was 
more  eloquent  than  he  knew. 

She  left  an  envelope  for  Henry.  What  it  had  in  it  no  one 
but  Henry  ever  knew.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  it  was  one 
word,  which  became  the  key  to  all  the  happiness  of  his  after 
life.  Judging  from  the  happiness  he  has  in  his  home  with 
Anna,  his  wife,  it  would  not  be  hard  to  tell  what  the  word  was. 
The  last  time  I  was  at  his  house  I  noticed  that  their  eldest 
child  was  named  Priscilla,  and  that  the  boy  who  came  next 
was  Antoine.  Henry  told  me  that  Priscilla  left  a  sort  of 
"will"  for  the  Marquis,  in  which  she  asked  him  to  do  the 
Christian  work  that  she  would  have  liked  to  do.  Nothing 
could  have  been  wiser  if  she  had  only  sought  his  own  happi 
ness,  for  in  activity  for  others  is  the  only  safety  for  a  restless 
and  sceptical  mind.  He  had  made  himself  the  special  pro 
tector  of  the  ten  little  Slabtown  urchins. 

Henry  told  me  in  how  many  ways,  through  Challeau,  La- 
fort  &  Cie.,  the  Marquis  had  contrived  to  contribute  to  his  pros 
perity  without  offending  his  delicacy.  He  found  himself 
possessed  of  practically  unlimited  credit  through  the  guar 
antee  which  the  great  New  Orleans  banking-house  was  always- 
ready  to  give. 

"What  is  that  fine  building?"  I  said,  pointing  to  a  picture 
on  the  wall. 


P  R  I  S  C  I  L  L  A  . 


I99 


"  Oh,  that  is  the  '  Hospice  de  Sainte  Priscille,'  "  which 
Antoine  has  erected  in  Paris.  People  there  call  it  '  La 
Marquise.' ' 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Priscilla's  mother,  who  sat  by,  "An 
toine  is  coming  to  see  us  next  month,  and  is  to  look  after 
his  Slabtown  friends  when  he  comes.  They  used  to  call  him 
at  first  '  Priscilla's  Frenchman.'  ' 

And  to  this  day  Miss  More  declares  that  Markusses  is  a 
thing  she  can't  noways  understand. 


A  DIRGE  OF  THE  LAKE. 


A  DIRGE  OF  THE  LAKE/ 


BY    WILL    CAKLETON. 


N  the  lake — on  the  lake — 

The  summer  day  is  shining  ; 
The  sky's  rich  hue  shows  deeper  blue 

Above  its  forest-lining. 
The  breezes  high  blow  far  and  nigh 

White  cloudlets,  like  a  feather : 
The  breezes  low  sweep  to  and  fro, 
And  blue  waves  race  together. 


Up  the  lake — up  the  lake — 

The  busy  oars  are  dipping  ; 
Their  blades  of  wood  that  cleave  the  flood 

With  streamlets  fresh  are  dripping. 
A  graceful  throng  of  golden  song 

Comes  floating  smoothly  after  ; 
Like  silver  chains  ring  back  the  strains 

Of  childhood's  merry  laughter. 

By  the  lake — by  the  lake — 

The  lilies'  heads  are  lifting; 
But  into  night  the  warmth  and  light 

Of  happy  homes  are  drifting. 

*  Dedicated  to  the  bereaved  of  the  Baw  Beese  Lake  disaster,  August  i,  1876. 

203 


204  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

The  sky's  sun-gem  looks  up  at  them 

In  pity  unavailing  ; 
With  laughing  eyes,  between  two  skies, 

They  for  the  grave  are  sailing. 

In  the  lake — in  the  lake — 

The  barge  is  sinking  steady  ; 
A  startled  hush,  a  frightened  rush, 

And  Death  is  over-ready. 
A  pleading  cry,  a  faint  reply, 

A  frenzied,  brave  endeavor, 
And  o'er  them  deep  the  wavelets  creep, 

And  smile  as  sweet  as  ever. 

'Neath  the  lake — 'neath  the  lake — 

The  wearied  forms  are  lying  ; 
They  sleep  away  their  gala-day — 

Too  fair  a  day  for  dying. 
With  hands  that  grasped  and  nothing  clasped- 

With  terror-frozen  faces — 
In  slimy  caves  and  gloomy  graves 

They  nestle  to  their  places. 

From  the  lake — from  the  lake — 

They  one  by  one  are  creeping  ; 
Their  very  rest  is  grief-possessed, 

And  piteous  looks  their  sleeping. 
Upon  no  face  is  any  trace 

Of  sickness'  friendly  warn.ng ; 
But  sad  they  lie  'neath  evening's  sky, 

Who  were  so  gay  at  morning. 


A     DIRGE     OF     THE     LAKE. 

O'er  the  lake — o'er  the  lake — 

A  spectre-bark  is  sailing  ; 
There  is  no  cry  of  danger  nigh — 

There  is  no  sound  of  wailing. 
They  who  have  died  gaze  from  its  side 

With  spirit-faces  glowing  ; 
For  toward  the  skies  the  life-boat  plies, 

And  angel  hands  are  rowing. 


20$ 


J£ROMETTE. 


JEROMETTE. 

BY   WILKIE   COLLINS. 


PART  FIRST. 


I. 


Y  BROTHER,  the  clergyman,  looked  over  my 
shoulder  before  I  was  aware  of  him,  and  discov 
ered  that  the  volume  which  completely  absorbed 
my  attention  was  a  collection  of  famous  trials, 
published  in  a  new  edition  and  in  a  popular  form. 
He  laid  his  finger  on  the  trial  which  I  hap 
pened  to  be  reading  at  the  moment.  I  looked  up  at  him  ;  his 
face  startled  me.  He  had  turned  pale.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  open  page  of  the  book  with  an  expression  which  puz 
zled  and  alarmed  me. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "what  in  the  world  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  " 

He  answered  in  an  odd,  absent  manner,  still  keeping  his 
finger  on  the  open  page. 

"I  had  almost  forgotten, "he  said,  "and  this  reminds  me." 
"Reminds  you  of  what?  "I  asked.      "You  don't  mean  to 
say  you  know  anything  about  the  trial  ?  " 

"I  know  this,"  he  said  :  "the  prisoner  was  guilt}'." 
"Guilty?"!  repeated.     "Why,  the  man  was  acquitted  by 
the  jury,  with  the  full  approval  of  the  judge  !     What  can  you 
possibly  mean  ?  " 

"There  are  circumstances    connected  with  that  trial,"  my 


210  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

brother  answered,  "which  were  never  communicated  to  the 
judge  or  the  jury — which  were  never  so  much  as  hinted  or 
whispered  in  court.  /  know  them  of  my  own  knowledge — 
by  my  own  personal  experience.  They  are  very  sad,  very 
strange,  very  terrible.  I  have  mentioned  them  to  no  mortal 
creature.  I  have  done  my  best  to  forget  them.  You,  quite 
innocently,  have  brought  them  back  to  my  mind.  They  op 
press,  they  distress  me.  I  wish  I  had  found  you  reading  any 
book  in  your  library,  except  that  book  !  " 

My  curiosity  was  now  strongly  excited.     I  spoke  out  plainly. 

"Might  it  not  relieve  your  mind,"  I  suggested,  "if  you  ad 
mitted  some  one  into  your  confidence  ?  You  might  surely  tell 
your  brother  what  you  are  unwilling  to  mention  to  persons  less 
nearly  related  to  you.  We  have  followed  different  professions, 
and  have  lived  in  different  countries,  since  we  were  boys  at 
school.  But  you  know  you  can  trust  me." 

He  considered  a  little  with  himself. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know  I  can  trust  you."  He  waited  a 
moment,  and  then  he  surprised  me  by  a  strange  question. 

"  Do  you  believe,"  he  asked,  "that  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
can  return  to  earth,  and  show  themselves  to  the  living?" 

I  answered  cautiously,  adopting  as  my  own  the  words  of  a 
great  English  writer,  touching  the  subject  of  ghosts. 

"You  ask  me  a  question,"  I  said,  "  which,  after  five  thou 
sand  years,  is  yet  undecided.  On  that  account  alone  it  is  a 
question  not  to-be  trifled  with." 

My  reply  seemed  to  satisfy  him. 

"You  suggested  just  now,"  he  resumed,  "that  it  might  re 
lieve  my  mind  if  I  took  you  into  my  confidence.  You  may 
be  right ;  and,  as  my  nearest  living  relative,  you  are  certainly 
the  fittest  person  whom  I  can  trust.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
keep  what  I  tell  you  a  secret  as  long  as  I  live.  After  my 
death  I  care  little  what  happens.  Let  the  story  of  my  strange 


JEROMETTE.  211 

experience  be  added  to  the  published  experience  of  those 
other  men  who  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  and  who  believe 
what  I  believe.  The  world  will  not  be  the  worse,  and  may 
be  the  better,  for  knowing  one  day  what  I  am  now  about  to 
confide  to  your  ear  alone." 

He  began  his  narrative,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  in 
these  words :  — 

II. 

On  a  fine  summer  evening,  many  years  since,  I  left  my 
chambers  in  the  Temple,  to  meet  a  fellow-student  who  had 
proposed  to  me  a  night's  amusement  in  the  public  gardens  at 
Cremorne. 

You  had  then  gone  out  to  India,  and  I  had  just  taken  my 
degree  at  Oxford.  I  had  sadly  disappointed  my  father  by 
choosing  the  law  as  my  profession,  in  preference  to  the  Church. 
At  that  time,  to  own  the  truth,  I  had  no  serious  intention  of 
following  any  special  vocation.  I  sitnply  wanted  an  excuse 
for  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  a  London  life.  The  study  of 
the  law  supplied  me  with  that  excuse,  and  I  chose  the  law  as 
my  profession  accordingly. 

On  reaching  the  place  at  which  we  had  arranged  to  meet,  I 
found  that  my  friend  had  not  kept  his  appointment.  After 
waiting  vainly  for  ten  minutes,  my  patience  gave  way,  and  I 
went  into  the  gardens  by  myself. 

I  took  two  or  three  turns  round  the  platform  devoted  to  the 
dancers,  -without  discovering  my  fellow-student,  and  without 
seeing  any  other  person  with  whom  I  happened  to  be  acquaint 
ed  at  that  time. 

For  some  reason,  which  I  cannot  now  remember,  I  was  not 
in  my  usual  good  spirits  that  evening.  The  noisy  music  jarred 
on  my  nerves ;  the  sight  of  the  gaping  crowd  round  the  plat 
form  irritated  me ;  the  blandishments  of  the  painted  ladies  of 


212  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

the  profession  of  pleasure  saddened  and  disgusted  me.  I 
opened  my  cigar  case,  and  turned  aside  into  one  of  the  quiet 
by-walks  of  the  gardens. 

A  man  who  is  habitually,  careful  in  choosing  his  cigar  has 
this  advantage  over  a  man  who  is  habitually  careless :  he  can 
always  count  on  smoking  the  best  cigar  in  his  case,  down  to 
the  last.  I  was  still  absorbed  in  choosing  my  cigar,  when  I 
heard  these  words  behind  me,  spoken  in  a  foreign  accent,  and 
in  a  woman's  voice  :  — 

"  Leave  me  directly,  sir !  I  wish  to  have  nothing  to  say  to 
you." 

I  turned  round,  and  discovered  a  little  lady,  very  simply  and 
tastefully  dressed,  who  looked  both  angry  and  alarmed  as  she 
rapidly  passed  me  on  her  way  to  the  more  frequented  part  of 
the  gardens.  A  man  (evidently  the  worse  for  the  wine  he  had 
drunk  in  the  course  of  the  evening)  was  following  her,  and 
was  pressing  his  tipsy  attentions  on  her  with  the  coarsest  inso 
lence  of  speech  and  manner.  She  was  young  and  pretty,  and 
she  cast  one  entreating  look  at  me  as  she  went  by,  which  it  was 
not  in  manhood — perhaps  I  ought  to  say  in  young  manhood 
—  to  resist. 

I  instantly  stepped  forward  to  protect  her,  careless  whether 
I  involved  myself  in  a  discreditable  quarrel  with  a  blackguard 
or  not.  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  fellow  resented  my  inter 
ference,  and  my  temper  gave  way.  Fortunately  for  me,  just 
as  I  lifted  my  hand  to  knock  him  down,  a  policeman  appeared, 
who  had  noticed  that  he  was  drunk,  and  who  settled  the  dis 
pute,  officially,  by  turning  him  out  of  the  gardens. 

I  led  her  away  from  the  crowd  that  had  collected.  She 
was  evidently  frightened — I  felt  her  hand  trembling  on  my  arm 
— but  she  had  one  great  merit :  she  made  no  fuss  about  it. 

"  If  I  can  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said,  in  her  pretty 
foreign  accent,  "  I  shall  soon  be  myself  again,  and  I  shall  nol 


J  E  R  O  M  E  T  T  E  .  213 

trespass  any  further  on  your  kindness.     I  thank  you  very 
much,  sir,  for  taking  care  of  me." 

We  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  a  retired  part  of  the  gardens, 
near  a  little  fountain.  A  row  of  lighted  lamps  ran  around  the 
outer  rim  of  the  basin.  I  could  see  her  plainly. 

I  have  spoken  of  her  as  "  a  little  lady."  I  could  not  have 
described  her  more  correctly  in  three  words. 

Her  figure  was  slight  and  small.  She  was  a  well-made 
miniature  of  a  woman  from  head  to  foot.  Her  hair  and  her 
eyes  were  both  dark.  The  hair  curled  naturally  ;  the  expres 
sion  of  the  eyes  was  quiet  and  rather  sad ;  the  complexion, *as 
I  then  saw  it,  very  pale  ;  the  little  mouth  perfectly  charming. 
I  was  especially  attracted,  I  remember,  by  the  carriage  of  her 
head.  It  was  strikingly  graceful  and  spirited.  It  distin 
guished  her,  little  as  she  was,  and  quiet  as  she  was,  among 
the  thousands  of  other  women  in  the  gardens,  as  a  creature 
apart.  Even  the  one  marked  defect  in  her — a  slight  "cast" 
in  the  left  eye — seemed  to  add,  in  some  strange  way,  to  the 
quaint  attractiveness  of  her  face.  I  have  already  spoken  of 
the  tasteful  simplicity  of  her  dress.  I  ought  now  to  add  that 
it  was  not  made  of  any  costly  material,  and  that  she  wore  no 
jewels  or  ornaments  of  any  sort.  My  little  lady  was  not  rich. 
Even  a  man's  eye  could  see  that. 

She  was  perfectly  unembarrassed  and  unaffected.  We  fell 
as  easily  into  talk  as  if  we  had  been  friends  instead  of  strangers. 

I  asked  how  it  was  that  she  had  no  companion  to  take  care 
of  her.  "You  are  too  young  and  too  pretty,"  I  said  in  my 
blunt  English  way,  "  to  trust  yourself  alone  in  such  a  place  as 
this." 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  compliment.  She  calmly  put  it 
away  from  her  as  if  it  had  not  reached  her  ears. 

"  I  have  no  friend  to  take  care  of  me,"  she  said,  simply.  w  1 
was  sad  and  sorry  this  evening,  all  by  myself,  and  I  thought  .1 


214  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

would  go  to  the  'gardens  and  hear  the  music,  just  to  amuse  me. 
It  is  not  much  to  pay  at  the  gate.  Only  a  shilling." 

"No  friend  to  take  care  of  you?"  I  repeated.  "Surely 
there  must  be  one  happy  man  who  might  have  been  here  with 
you  to-night." 

"What  man  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"The  man,"  I  answered,  thoughtlessly,  "whom  we  call  in 
England  a  sweetheart." 

I  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  recalled  those  foolish 
words  the  moment  they  passed  my  lips.  I  felt  that  I  had 
taken  a  vulgar  liberty  with  her.  Her  face  saddened ;  her 
eyes  dropped  to  the  ground.  I  begged  her  pardon. 

"There  is  no  need  to  beg  my  pardon,"  she  said.  "If  you 
wish  to  know,  sir — yes,  I  had  once  a  sweetheart,  as  you  call 
it  in  England.  He  has  gone  away  and  left  me.  No  more  of 
him,  if  you  please.  I  am  rested  now.  I  will  thank  you  again, 
and  go  home." 

She  rose  to  leave  me. 

I  was  determined  not  to  part  with  her  in  that  way.  I 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  see  her  safely  back  to  her  own  door. 
She  hesitated.  I  took  a  man's  unfair  advantage  of  her  :  I  ap 
pealed  to  her  fears.  I  said,  "  Suppose  the  blackguard  who  an 
noyed  you  should  be  waiting  outside  the  gates?  "  That  decided 
her.  She  took  my  arm.  We  went  away  together  by  the 
bank  of  the  Thames  in  the  balmy  summer  night. 

A  walk  of  half  an  hour  brought  us  to  the  house  in  which 
she  lodged — a  shabby  little  house  in  a  by-street,  inhabited 
evidently  by  very  poor  people. 

She  held  out  her  hand  at  the  door,  and  wished  me  good 
night.  I  was  too  much  interested  in  her  to  consent  to  leave 
my  little  French  lady  without  the  hope  of  seeing  her  again.  I 
asked  permission  to  call  on  her  the  next  day.  We  were  stand- 


JEROMETTE.  21$ 

ing  under  the  light  of  the  street  lamp.  She  studied  my  face 
with  a  grave  and  steady  attention  before  she  made  any  reply. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  think  I  do  know  a  gentleman 
when  I  see  him.  You  may  come,  sir,  if  you  please,  and  call 
upon  me  to-morrow." 

So  we  parted.  So  I  entered — doubting  nothing,  foreboding 
nothing — on  a  scene  in  my  life  which  I  now  look  back  on 
with  unfeigned  repentance  and  regret. 

III. 

I  am  speaking,  at  this  later  time,  in  the  position  of  a  clergy 
man,  and  in  the  character  of  a  man  of  mature  age.  Remem 
ber  that,  and  you  will  understand  why  I  pass  as  rapidly  as 
possible  over  the  events  of  the  next  year  of  my  life ;  why  I 
say  as  little  as  I  can  of  the  errors  and  the  delusions  of  my 
youth. 

I  called  on  her  the  next  day.  I  repeated  my  visits  during 
the  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  until  the  shabby  little  house 
in  the  by-street  had  become  a  second  and  (I  say  it  with  shame 
and  self-reproach)  a  dearer  home  to  me. 

All  of  herself  and  her  story  which  she  thought  fit  to  con 
fide  to  me  under  the  circumstances,  may  be  repeated  to  you  in 
a  few  words. 

The  name  by  which  letters  were  addressed  to  her  was 
"Mademoiselle  J^romette."  Among  the  ignorant  people  of 
the  house  and  the  small  tradesmen  of  the  neighborhood,  who 
found  her  name  not  easy  of  pronunciation  by  the  average 
English  tongue,  she  was  known  by  the  friendly  nickname  of 
"  the  French  miss."  When  I  knew  her  she  was  resigned  to 
her  lonely  life  among  strangers.  Some  years  had  elapsed 
since  she  had  lost  her  parents  and  had  left  France.  Possess 
ing  a  small,  a  very  small,  income  of  her  own,  she  added  to  it 


2l6  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

by  coloring  miniatures  for  the  photographers.  She  had  rela 
tives  still  living  in  France,  but  she  had  long  since  ceased  to 
correspond  with  them.  "Ask  me  nothing  more  about  my 
family,"  she  used  to  say.  "  I  am  as  good  as  dead  in  my  own 
country  and  among  my  own  people." 

This  was  all — literally  all — that  she  told  me  of  herself.  I 
have  never  discovered  more  of  her  sad  story  from  that  day  to 
this. 

She  never  mentioned  her  family  name — never  even  told  me 
what  part  of  France  she  came  from,  or  how  long  she  had  lived 
in  England.  That  she  was  by  birth  and  breeding  a  lady,  I 
could  entertain  no  doubt ;  her  manners,  her  accomplishments, 
her  ways  of  thinking  and  speaking,  all  proved  it.  Looking 
below  the  surface,  her  character  showed  itself  in  aspects  not 
common  among  young  women  in  these  days.  In  her  quiet 
way  she  was  an  incurable  fatalist,  and  a  firm  believer  in  the 
ghostly  reality  of  apparitions  from  the  dead.  Then,  again,  in 
the  matter  of  money  she  had  strange  views  of  her  own. 
Whenever  my  purse  was  in  my  hand,  she  held  me  resolutely 
at  a  distance  from  first  to  last.  She  refused  to  move  into 
better  apartments.  The  shabby  little  house  was  clean  inside, 
and  the  poor  people  who  lived  in  it  were  kind  to  her,  and 
that  was  enough.  The  most  expensive  present  that  she  ever 
permitted  me  to  offer  her  was  a  little  enamelled  ring,  the 
plainest  and  cheapest  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  jeweller's 
shop.  In  all  her  relations  with  me  she  was  sincerity  itself. 
On  all  occasions,  and  under  all  circumstances,  she  spoke  her' 
mind  (as  the  phrase  is)  with  the  same  uncompromising  plain 
ness. 

"I  like  you,"  she  said  to  me  ;  WI  respect  you  ;  I  shall  always 
be  faithful  to  you  while  you  are  faithful  to  me.  But  my  love 
has  gone  from  me.  There  is  another  man  who  has  taken  it 
away  with  him,  I  know  not  where." 


JEROME  TTE.  2 1  / 

Who  was  the  other  man  ? 

She  refused  to  tell  me.  She  kept  his  rank  and  his  name 
strict  secrets  from  me.  I  never  discovered  how  he  had  met 
with  her,  or  why  he  had  left  her,  or  whether  the  guilt  was  his 
of  making  her  an  exile  from  her  country  and  her  friends. 
She  despised  herself  for  still  loving  him ;  but  the  passion  was 
too  strong  for  her — she  owned  it  and  lamented  it  with  the 
frankness  which  was  so  preeminently  a  part  of  her  character. 
More  than  this,  she  plainly  told  me,  in  the  early  days  of  oui 
acquaintance,  that  she  believed  he  would  return  to  her.  It 
might  be  to-morrow,  or  it  might  be  years  hence.  Even  if  he 
failed  to  repent  of  his  own  cruel  conduct,  the  man  would  still 
miss  her  as  something  lost  out  of  his  life,  and  sooner  or  later 
htj  would  come  back. 

"  And  will  you  receive  him  if  he  does  come  back?"  I  asked. 

"I  shall  receive  him,"  she  replied,  "  against  my  own  better 
judgment — in  spite  of  my  own  firm  persuasion  that  the  day  of 
his  return  to  me  will  bring  with  it  the  darkest  days  of  my  life." 

I  tried  to  remonstrate  with  her. 

"  You  have  a  will  of  your  own,"  I  said.  "  Exert  it  if  he 
attempts  to  return  to  you." 

"I  have  no  will  of  my.  own,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "where 
he  is  concerned.  It  is  my  misfortune  to  love  him."  Her  eyes 
rested  for  a  moment  on  mine  with  the  utter  self-abandonment 
of  despair.  "We  have  said  enough  about  this,"  she  added, 
abruptly ;  "  let  us  say  no  more." 

From  that  time  we  never  spoke  again  of  the  unknown  man. 
During  the  year  that  followed  our  first  meeting,  she  heard 
nothing  of  him,  directly  or  indirectly.  He  might  be  living,  or 
he  might  be  dead.  There  came  no  word  of  him  or  from  him. 
I  was  fond  enough  of  her  to  be  satisfied  with  this — he  never 
disturbed  us. 


2l8  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 


IV. 

The  year  passed,  and  the  end  came.  Not  the  end  as  you  may 
have  anticipated  it,  or  as  I  might  have  foreboded  it. 

You  remember  the  time  when  your  letters  from  home 
informed  you  of  the  fatal  termination  of4  our  mother's  illness  ? 
It  is  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speaking.  A  few  hours  only 
before  she  breathed  her  last  she  called  me  to  her  bedside,  and 
•desired  that  we  might  be  left  together  alone.  Reminding  me 
that  her  death  was  near,  she  spoke  of  my  prospects  in  life ; 
she  noticed  my  want  of  interest  in  the  studies  which  were  then 
supposed  to  be  engaging  my  attention,  and  she  ended  by 
entreating  me  to  reconsider  my  refusal  to  enter  the  Church. 

"Your  father's  heart  is  set  upon  it,"  she  said.  "  Do  what  I 
ask  of  3rou,  my  dear,  and  you  will  help  to  comfort  him  when 
I  am  gone." 

Her  strength  failed  her;  she  could  say  no  more.  Could  1 
refuse  the  last  request  she  would  ever  make  to  me?  I  knelt 
at  the  bedside  and  took  her  wasted  hand  in  mine,  and  solemnly 
promised  her  the  respect  which  a  son  owes  to  his  mother's  last 
wishes. 

Having  bound  myself  by  this  sacred  engagement,  I  had  no 
choice  but  to  accept  the  sacrifice  which  it  imperatively  exacted 
from  me.  The  time  had  come  when  I  must  tear  myself  free 
from  all  unworthy  associations.  No  matter  what  the  effort 
cost  me,  I  must  separate  myself  at  once  and  forever  from  the 
unhappy  woman  who  was  not,  who  never  could  be,  my  wife. 

At  the  close  of  a  dull,  foggy  'day  I  set  forth,  with  a  heavy 
heart,  to  say  the  words  which  were  to  part  us  forever. 

Her  lodging  was  not  far  from  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 
As  I  drew  near  the  place  the  darkness  was  gathering,  and  the 
broad  surface  of  the  river  was  hidden  from  me  in  a  chill,  white 


JEROMETTE.  2IQ 

mist.  I  stood  for  a  while  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  vaporous 
shroud  that  brooded  over  the  flowing  water,  —  I  stood  and 
asked  myself,  in  despair,  the  one  dreary  question  :  "What  am 
I  to  say  to  her  ?  " 

The  mist  chilled  me  to  the  bones.  I  turned  from  the  river 
bank,  and  made  my  way  to  her  lodgings  hard  by.  "  It  must 
be  done,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  took  out  my  key  and  opened 
the  house  door. 

She  was  not  at  her  work  as  usual,  when  I  entered  her  little 
sitting-room.  She  was  standing  by  the  fire,  with  her  head 
down,  and  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

The  instant  she  turned  to  meet  me  I  saw  in  her  face  that 
something  was  wrong.  Her  ordinary  manner  was  the  manner 
of  an  unusually  placid  and  self-restrained  person.  Her  tem 
perament  had  little  of  the  liveliness  which  we  associate  in 
England  with  the  French  nature.  She  was  not  ready  with 
her  laugh,  and  in  all  my  previous  experience  I  had  never  yet 
known  her  to  cry.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  the  quiet 
face  disturbed ;  I  saw  tears  in  the  pretty  brown  eyes.  She 
ran  to  meet  me,  and  laid  her  head  on  my  breast,  and  burst 
into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping  that  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot. 

Could  she,  by  any  human  possibility,  have  heard  of  the 
coming  change  in  my  life?  Was  she  aware,  before  I  had 
opened  my  lips,  of  the  hard  necessity  which  had  brought  me 
to  the  house? 

It  was  simply  impossible  ;  the  thing  could  not  be. 

I  waited  until  her  first  burst  of  emotion  had  worn  itself  out. 
Then  I  asked,  with  an  uneasy  conscience,  with  a  sinking 
heart,  what  had  happened  to  distress  her. 

She  drew  herself  away  from  me,  sighing  heavily,  and  gave 
me  the  open  letter  which  I  had  seen  in  her  hand. 


22O  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  Read  that,"  she  said,  "  and  remember  I  told  you  what 
might  happen  when  we  first  met." 

I  read  the  letter. 

It  was  signed  in  initials  only ;  but  the  writer  plainly  re 
vealed  himself  as  the  man  who  had  deserted  her.  He  had 
repented ;  he  had  returned  to  her.  In  proof  of  his  penitence 
he  was  willing  to  do  her  the  justice  which  he  had  hitherto 
refused ;  he  was  willing  to  marry  her,  on  the  condition 
that  she  would  engage  to  keep  the  marriage  a  secret  so  long 
as  his  parents  lived.  Submitting  this  proposal,  he  waited  to 
know  whether  she  would  consent,  on  her  side,  to  forgive  and 
forget. 

I  gave  .her  back  the  letter  in  silence.  This  unknown  rival 
had  done  me  the  service  of  paving  the  way  for  our  separation. 
In  offering  her  the  atonement  of  marriage,  he  had  made  it,  on 
my  part,  a  matter  of  duty  to  her  as  well  as  to  myself  to  say  the 
parting  words.  I  felt  this  instantly  ;  and  yet  I  hated  him  for 
helping  me. 

She  took  my  hand  and  h:d  me  to  the  sofa.  We  sat  down 
side  by  side.  Her  face  was  composed  to  a  sad  tranquillity. 
She  was  quiet ;  she  was  herself  again. 

"I  have  refused  to  see  him,"  she  said,  "until  I  had  first 
spoken  to  you.  You  have  read  his  letter.  What  do  you  say?" 

I  could  make  but  one  answer.  It  was  my  duty  to  tell  her 
what  my  own  position  was  in  the  plainest  terms.  I  did  my 
duty,  leaving  her  free  to  decide  on  the  future  for  herself. 
Those  sad  words  said,  it  was  useless  to  prolong  the  wretched 
ness  of  our  separation.  I  rose,  and  took  her  hand  for  the  last 
time. 

I  see  her  again  now,  at  that  final  moment,  as  plainly  as  if 
it  had  happened  yesterday.  She  had  been  suffering  from  an 
affection  of  the  throat,  and  she  had  a  white  silk  handkerchief 
tied  loosely  round  her  neck.  She  wore  a  simple  dress  of 


JEROMETTE.  221 

purple  merino,  with  a  black  silk  apron  over  it.  Her  face  was 
deadly  pale ;  her  fingers  felt  icily  cold  as  they  closed  round 
ray  hand. 

"Promise  me  one  thing,"  I  said,  "before  I  go.  While  I  live 
I  am  your  friend,  if  I  am  nothing  more.  If  you  are  ever  in 
trouble,  promise  that  you  will  let  me  know  it." 

She  started,  and  drew  back  from  me  as  if  I  had  struck  her 
with  a  sudden  terror. 

"  Strange  !  "  she  said,  speaking  to  herself.  "  He  feels  as  I 
feel.  He  is  afraid  of  what  may  happen  to  me  in  my  life  to 
come." 

I  attempted  to  re-assure  her.  I  tried  to  tell  her  —  what  was 
indeed  the  truth  —  that  I  had  only  been  thinking  of  the  ordi 
nary  chances  and  changes  of  life  when  I  spoke. 

She  paid  no  heed  to  me ;  she  came  back  and  put  her  hands 
on  my  shoulders,  and  thoughtfully  and  sadly  looked  up  in  my 
face. 

"•My  mind  is  not  your  mind  in  this  matter,"  she  said.  "  1 
once  owned  to  you  that  I  had  my  forebodings  when  we  first 
spoke  of  this  man's  return.  I  may  tell  you  now  more  than  I 
told  you  then.  I  believe  I  shall  die  young,  and  die  miserably. 
If  I  am  right,  have  you  interest  enough  still  left  in  me  to  wish 
to  hear  of  it  ?  " 

She  paused,  shuddering,  and  added  these  startling  words : 

"  You  shall  hear  of  it !  " 

The  tone  of  steady  conviction  in  which  she  spoke  alarmed 
and  distressed  me.  My  face  showed  her  how  deeply  and  how 
painfully  I  was  affected. 

"There,  there  !"  she  said,  returning  to  her  natural  manner, 
*  don't  take  what  I  say  too  seriously  !  A  poor  girl  who  has 
led  a  lonely  life  like  mine  thinks  strangely  and  talks  strangely 
sometimes.  Yes,  I  give  you  my  promise.  If  I  am  ever  i» 


222  .  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

trouble  I  will  let  you  know  it.  God  bless  you — you  have 
been  very  kind  to  me.  Good-bye  !  " 

A  tear  dropped  on  my  face  as  she  kissed  me.  The  door 
closed  between  us.  The  dark  street  received  me. 

It  was  raining  heavily.  I  looked  up  at  her  window  through 
the  drifting  shower.  The  curtains  were  parted ;  she  was 
standing  in  the  gap,  dimly  lit  by  the  lamp  on  the  table  behind 
her,  waiting  for  our  last  look  at  each  other.  Slowly  lifting 
her  hand,  she  waved  her  farewell  at  the  window  with  the 
unsought  native  grace  which  had  charmed  me  on  the  night 
when  we  first  met.  The  curtains  fell  again  ;  she  disappeared 
—  nothing  was  before  me,  nothing  was  round  me,  but  the 
darkness  and  the  night. 

V. 

In  two  years  from  that  time  I  had  redeemed  the  promise 
given  to  my  mother  on  her  death-bed.  I  had  entered  the 
Church. 

My  father's  interest  made  my  first  step  in  my  new  profes 
sion  an  easy  one.  After  serving  my  preliminary  apprentice 
ship  as  a  curate,  I  was  appointed,  before  I  was  thirty  years  of 
age,  to  a  living  in  the  west  of  England. 

My  new  benefice  offe/ed  me  every  advantage  that  I  could 
possibly  desire,  with  the  one  exception  of  a  sufficient  income. 
Although  my  wants  were  few,  and  although  I  was  still  an 
unmarried  man,  I  found  it  desirable,  on  many  accounts,  to  add 
to  my  resources.  Following  the  example  of  other  young 
clergymen  in  my  position,  I  determined  to  receive  pupils  who 
might  stand  in  need  of  preparation  for  a  career  at  the  Univer 
sities.  My  relatives  exerted  themselves,  and  my  good  fortune 
still  befriended  me.  I  obtained  two  pupils  to  start  with.  A 
third  would  complete  the  number  which  I  was  at  present  pre- 


JEROME  TTE.  225 

pared  to  receive.  In  course  of  time  this  third  pupil  made  his 
appearance,  under  circumstances  sufficiently  remarkable  to 
merit  being  mentioned  in  detail. 

It  was  the  summer  vacation,  and  my  two  pupils  had  gone 
home.  Thanks  to  a  neighboring  clergyman,  who  kindly  un 
dertook  to  perform  my  duties  for  me,  I  too  obtained  a  fort 
night's  holiday,  which  I  spent  at  my  father's  house  in  London. 

During  my  sojourn  in  the  metropolis,  I  was  offered  an 
opportunity  of  preaching  in  a  church  made  famous  by  the 
eloquence  of  one  of  the  popular  pulpit  orators  of  our  time. 
In  accepting  the  proposal  I  felt  naturally  anxious  to  do  my 
best  before  the  unusually  large  and  unusually  intelligent  con 
gregation  which  would  be  assembled  to  hear  me. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  all  England 
had  been  startled  by  the  discovery  of  a  terrible  crime,  perpe 
trated  under  circumstances  of  extreme  provocation.  I  chose 
this  crime  as  the  main  subject  of  my  sermon.  Admitting  that 
the  best  among  us  were  frail  mortal  creatures,  subject  to  evil 
promptings  and  provocations  like  the  worst  among  us,  my 
object  was  to  show  how  a  Christian  man  may  find  his  certain 
refuge  from  temptation  in  the  safeguards  of  his  religion.  I 
dwelt  minutely  on  the  hardship  of  the  Christian's  first  strug 
gle  to  resist  the  evil  influence  —  on  the  help  which  his  Chris 
tianity  inexhaustibly  held  out  to  him  in  the  worst  relapses  of  the 
weaker  and  viler  part  of  his  nature  —  on  the  steady  and  certain 
gain  which  was  the  ultimate  reward  of  his  faith  and  his  firmness 
—  and  on  the  blessed  sense  of  peace  and  happiness  which 
accompanied  the  final  triumph.  Preaching  to  this  effect,  with 
the  fervent  conviction  which  I  really  felt,  I  may  say  for  myself, 
at  least,  that  I  did  no  discredit  to  the  choice  which  had  placed 
me  in  the  pulpit.  I  held  the  attention  of  my  congregation 
from  the  first  word  to  the  last. 

While  I  was  resting  in  the  vestry,  on  the  conclusion  of  the 


224  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

service,  a  note  was  brought  to  me  written  in  pencil.  A 
member  of  my  congregation  —  a  gentleman  —  wished  to  see 
me  on  a  matter  of  considerable  importance  to  himself.  He 
would  call  on  me  at  any  place,  and  at  any  hour,  which  I 
might  choose  to  appoint.  If  I  wished  to  be  satisfied  of  his 
respectability,  he  would  beg  leave  to  refer  me  to  his  father, 
with  whose  name  I  might  possibly  be  acquainted. 

The  name  given  in  the  reference  was  undoubtedly  familiar 
to  me  as  the  name  of  a  man  of  some  celebrity  and  influence 
in  the  world  of  London.  I  sent  back  my  card  appointing  an 
hour  for  the  visit  of  my  correspondent  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  next  day. 


TEROMETTE.  225 


PART  SECOND. 


VI. 

|HE  stranger  made  his  appearance  punctually.  1 
guessed  him  to  be  some  two  or  three  years  younger 
than  myself.  He  was  undeniably  handsome ;  his 
manners  were  the  manners  of  a  gentleman ;  and 
yet,  without  knowing  why,  I  felt  a  strong  dislike  to  him  the 
moment  he  entered  the  room. 

After  the  first  preliminary  words  of  politeness  had  been 
exchanged  between  us,  my  visitor  informed  me  as  follows  of 
the  object  which  he  had  in  view  :  — 

"I  believe  you  live  in  the  country,  sir?"  he  began. 

"I  live  in  the  west  of  England,"  I  answered. 

"  Do  you  make  a  long  stay  in  London  ?  " 

"  No.     I  go  back  to  my  rectory  to-morrow." 

"May  I  ask  if  you  take  pupils?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  any  vacancy  ?  " 

"I  have  one  vacancy." 

"  Would  you  object  to  let  me  go  back  with  you  to-morrow 
as  your  pupil  ?  " 

The  abruptness  of  the  proposal  took  me  by  surprise.  I 
hesitated. 

In  the  first  place  (as  I  have  already  said),  I  disliked  him. 
In  the  second  place,  he  was  too  old  to  be  a  fit  companion  for 
my  other  two  pupils  —  both  lads  in  their  teens.  In  the  third 
place,  he  had  asked  me  to  receive  him  at  least  three  weeks 
before  the  vacation  came  to  an  end.  I  had  my  own  pursuits 
and  amusements  in  prospect  during  that  interval,  and  saw  no 
reason  why  I  should  inconvenience  myself  by  setting  them 
aside. 


226  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

He  noticed  my  hesitation,  and  did  not  conceal  from  me  that 
f  had  disappointed  him. 

"I  have  it  very  much  at  heart,"  he  said,  "to  repair  without 
delay  the  time  that  I  have  lost.  My  age  is  against  me,  I 
know.  The  truth  is,  I  have  wasted  my  opportunities  since  I 
left  school,  and  I  am  anxious,  honestly  anxious,  to  mend  my 
way?  before  it  is  too  late.  I  wish  to  prepare  myself  for  one 
of  the  Universities ;  I  wish  to  show,  if  I  can,  that  I  am  not 
quite  unworthy  to  inherit  my  father's  famous  name.  You  are 
the  man  to  help  me,  if  I  can  only  persuade  you  to  do  it.  I 
was  struck  by  your  sermon  yesterday,  and,  if  I  may  ven 
ture  to  make  the  confession  in  your  presence,  I  took  a  strong 
liking  to  you.  Will  you  see  my  father  before  you  decide  to 
say  no?  He  will  be  able  to  explain  whatever  may  seem 
strange  in  my  present  application,  and  he  will  be  happy  to 
see  you  this  aftei  aoon,  if  you  can  spare  the  time.  As  to  the 
question  of  termj,  I  am  quite  sure  it  can  be  settled  to  your 
entire  satisfaction." 

He  was  evidently  in  earnest  —  gravely,  vehemently  in  ear 
nest.  I  unwillingly  consented  to  see  his  father. 

The  interview  was  a  long  one.  All  my  questions  were 
answered  fully  and  frankly. 

The  young  man  had  led  an  idle  and  desultory  life.  He 
was  weary  of  it,  and  ashamed  of  it.  His  disposition  was  a 
peculiar  one.  He  stood  sorely  in  need  of  a  guide,  a  teacher 
and  a  friend  in  whom  he  was  disposed  to  confide.  If  I  dis 
appointed  the  hopes  which  he  had  centred  in  me  he  would  be 
discouraged,  and  he  would  relapse  into  the  aimless  and  indo 
lent  existence  of  which  he  was  now  ashamed.  Any  terms  foi 
which. I  might  stipulate  were  at  my  disposal,  if  I  would  con 
sent  to  receive  him  for  three  months,  to  begin  with,  on  trial. 

I  still  hesitated.     I  consulted  my  father  and  my  friends. 

They  were  all  of  opinion  (and  justly  of  opinion  so  far)  th&t 


JEROMETTE.  227 

the  new  connection  would  be  an  excellent  one  for  me.  They 
all  reproached  me  for  taking  a  purely  capricious  dislike  to  a 
well-born  and  well-bred  young  man,  and  for  permitting  it  to 
influence  me  at  the  outset  of  my  career  against  my  own  inter 
ests.  Pressed  by  these  considerations,  I  allowed  myself  to  be 
persuaded  to  give  the  new  pupil  a  fair  trial.  He  accompanied 
me  the  next  day  on  my  way  back  to  the  rectory. 


VII. 

My  senior  pupil  (you  will  find  out  his  name  for  yourself 
'before  I  have  done)  began  well  in  one  respect,  at  least  —  he 
produced  a  decidedly  favorable  impression  on  the  persons 
•attached  to  my  little  household. 

The  women  especially  admired  his  beautiful  light  hair,  his 
crisply  curling  beard,  his  delicate  complexion,  his  clear  blue 
eyes,  and  his  finely  shaped  hands  and  feet.  Even  the  invete 
rate  reserve  in  his  manner,  and  the  downcast,  almost  sullen, 
look  which  had  prejudiced  me  against  him,  aroused  a  com 
mon  feeling  of  romantic  enthusiasm  in  my  servants'  hall.  It 
was  decided  on  the  high  authority  of  the  housekeeper  herself 
that  "the  new  gentleman"  was  in  love,  and,  more  interesting 
still,  that  he  was  the  victim  of  an  unhappy  attachment  which 
•had  driven  him  away  from  his  friends  and  his  home. 

For  myself,  I  tried  hard,  and  tried  vainly,  to  get  over  my 
first  dislike  to  the  senior  pupil. 

I  could  find  no  fault  with  him.  All  his  habits  were  quiet 
and  regular,  and  he  devoted  himself  conscientiously  to  his 
reading.  But,  little  by  little,  I  became  satisfied  that  his  heart 
was  not  in  bis  studies.  More  than  this,  I  had  my  reasons  for 
-suspecting  that  he  was  concealing  something  from  me,  and 
that  he  felt  painfully  the  reserve  on  his  own  part,  which  he 
could  not,  or  dared  not,  break  through.  There  were  moments 


228  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

when  I  almost  doubted  whether  he  had  not  chosen  my  remote 
country  rectory  as  a  safe  place  of  refuge  from  some  person  or 
persons  of  Whom  he  stood  in  dread. 

For  example,  his  ordinary  course  of  proceeding  in  the  mat 
ter  of  his  correspondence  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  strange. 

He  received  no  letters  at  my  house.  They  waited  for  him 
at  the  village  post-office.  He  invariably  called  for  them  him 
self,  and  invariably  forbore  to  trust  any  of  my  servants  with 
his  own  letters  for  the  post.  Again,  when  we  were  out  walk 
ing  together,  I  more  than  once  caught  him  looking  furtively 
over  his  shoulder,  as  if  he  suspected  some  person  of  following 
him  for  some  evil  purpose.  Being  constitutionally  a  hater  of 
mysteries,  I  determined  at  an  early  stage  of  our  intercourse 
on  making  an  effort  to  clear  matters  up.  There  might  be  just 
a  chance  of  my  winning  the  senior  pupil's  confidence,  if  I 
spoke  to  him  while  the  last  days  of  the  summer  vacation  still 
left  us  alone  together  in  the  house. 

"  Excuse  me  for  noticing  it,"  I  said  to  him  one  morning, 
while  we  were  engaged  over  our  books,  "  I  cannot  help  ob 
serving  that  you  appear  to  have  some  trouble  on  your  mind. 
Is  it  indiscreet  on  my  part  to  ask  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to 
you?" 

He  changed  color,  looked  up  at  me  quickly,  looked  down 
again  at  his  book,  struggled  hard  with  some  secret  fear  or 
secret  reluctance  that  was  in  him,  and  suddenly  burst  out  with 
this  extraordinary  question  :  — 

"  I  suppose  you  were  in  earnest  when  you  preached  that 
termon  in  London  ?  " 

"  I  am  astonished  that  you  should  doubt  it,"  I  replied. 

He  paused  again,  struggled  with  himself  again,  and  startled 
me  by  a  second  outbreak,  even  stranger  than  the  first. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  people  you  preached  at  in  your  sermon, " 
he  said.  "That's  the  true  reason  why  I  asked  you  to  take  me 


JEROMETTE.  229 

for  your  pupil.  Don't  turn  me  out !  When  you  talked  to 
your  congregation  of  tortured  and  tempted  people,  you  talked 
of  me." 

I  was  so  astonished  'by  the  confession  that  I  lost  my  presence 
of  mind.  For  the  moment  I  was  unable  to  answer  him. 

"  Don't  turn  me  out !  "  he  repeated.  "  Help  me  against  my 
self.  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  As  God  is  my  witness,  I 
am  telling  you  the  truth  !  " 

"Tell  me  the  -whole  truth,"  I  said,  "and  rely  on  my  consol 
ing  and  helping  you  —  rely  on  my  being  your  friend." 

In  the  fervor  of  the  moment  I  took  his  hand.  It  lay  cold 
and  still  in  mine  ;  it  mutely  warned  me  that  I  had  a  sullen  and 
secret  nature  to  deal  with. 

"  There  must  be  no  concealment  between  us,"  I  resumed. 
"You  have  entered  my  house,  by  your  own  confession,  under 
false  pretences.  It  is  your  duty  to  me,  and  your  duty  to  your 
self,  to  speak  out." 

The  man's  inveterate  reserve,  cast  off  for  the  moment  only., 
renewed  its  hold  on  him.  He  considered,  carefully  consid 
ered,  his  next  words  before  he  permitted  them  to  pass  his 
lips. 

"A  person  is  in  the  way  of  my  prospects  in  life,"  he  began, 
slowly,  with  his  eyes  cast  down  on  his  book.  "A  person  pro 
vokes  me  horribly.  I  feel  dreadful  temptations  (like  the  man 
you  spoke  of  in  your  sermon)  when  I  am  in  the  person's 
company.  Teach  me  to  resist  temptation  !  I  am  afraid  of 
myself  if  I  see  the  person  again.  You  are  the  only  man  who 
can  help  me.  Do  it  while  you  can." 

He  stopped,  and  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  forehead. 

"Will  that  do?"  he  asked,  still  with  his  eyes  on  his  book. 

"It  will  not  do,"  I  answered.  "You  are  so  far  from  really 
opening  your  heart  to  me  that  you  won't  even  let  me  know 
whether  it  is  a  man  or  a  woman  who  stands  in  the  way  of 


230  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

your  prospects  in  life.  You  use  the  word  '  person '  over  and 
over  again,  rather  than  say  '  he '  or  '  she,'  when  you  speak  of 
the  provocation  which  is  trying  you.  How  can  I  help  a  man 
who  has  so  little  confidence  in  me  as  that?" 

He  twisted  and  untwisted  his  handkerchief  in  his  hands. 
He  tried,  tried  desperately,  to  say  more  than  he  had  said  yet. 
No  !  The  words  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat.  Not  one  of 
them  would  pass  his  lips. 

"Give  me  time,"  he  pleaded,  piteously.  "I  can't  bring  my 
self  to  it  all  at  once.  I  mean  well.  Upon  my  soul,  I  mean 
well.  But  I  am  slow  at  this  sort  of  thing.  Wait  till  to-mor 
row." 

To-morrow  came,  and  again  he  put  it  off. 

"One  more  day,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  how  hard  it 
is  to  speak  plainly.  I  am  half  afraid ;  I  am  half  ashamed. 
Give  me  one  more  day." 

I  had  hitherto  only  disliked  him.  Try  as  I  might,  and  did, 
to  make  merciful  allowance  for  his  reserve,  I  began  to  despise 
him  now. 


VIII. 

The  day  of  the  deferred  confession  came,  and  brought  an 
event  with  it  for  which  both  he  and  I  were  alike  unprepared. 
Would  he  really  have  confided  in  me  but  for  that  event?  He 
must  either  have  done  it,  or  have  abandoned  the  purpose 
which  had  led  him  into  my  house. 

We  met  as  usual  at  the  breakfast  table.  My  housekeeper 
brought  in  my  letters  of  the  morning.  To  my  surprise,  in 
stead  of  leaving  the  room  again  as  usual,  she  walked  around 
to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  laid  a  letter  before  my  sen 
ior  pupil — the  first  letter  since  his  residence  with  me  which 
had  been  delivered  to  him  under  my  roof. 


J  E  R  O  M  E  T  T  E  .  231 

He  started,  and  took  up  the  letter.  He  looked  at  the  ad 
dress.  A  spasm  of  suppressed  fury  passed  across  his  face ; 
his  breath  came  quickly ;  his  hand  trembled  as  it  held  the 
letter.  So  far  I  said  nothing.  I  waited  to  see  whether  he 
would  open  the  envelope  in  my  presence  or  not. 

He  was  afraid  to  open  it  in  my  presence.  He  got  on  his 
feet ;  he  said,  m  tones  so  low  that  I  could  barely  hear  him, 
"Please  excuse  me  for  a  minute,"  and  left  the  room. 

I  waited  for  half  an  hour — for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after 
that — and  then  I  sent  to  ask  if  he  had  forgotten  his  breakfast. 

In  a  minute  more  I  heard  his  footstep  in  the  hall.  He 
opened  the  breakfast-room  door,  and  stood  on  the  threshold, 
with  a  small  travelling-bag  in  his  hand. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  still  standing  at  the  door. 
"  I  must  ask  for  leave  of  absence  for  a  day  or  two.  Business 
in  London." 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use?  "  I  asked.  "  I  am  afraid  your  lettei 
has  brought  you  bad  news." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  shortly;  "bad  news.  I  have  no  time  foi 
breakfast." 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,"  I  urged.  "Wait  long  enough  to 
treat  me  like  your  friend,  to  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is, 
before  you  go." 

He  made  no  reply.  He  stepped  into  the  hall  and  closed 
the  door ;  then  opened  it  again  a  little  way  without  showing 
himself. 

"Business  in  London,"  he  repeated,  as  if  he  thought  it 
highly  important  to  inform  me  of  the  nature  of  his  errand. 
The  door  closed  for  the  second  time.  He  was  gone. 

I  went  into  my  study  and  carefully  considered  what  had 
happened. 

The  result  of  my  reflections  is  easily  described.  I  deter 
mined  on  discontinuing  my  relations  with  my  senior  pupil 


232  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

In  writing  to  his  father  (which  I  did,  with  all  due  courtesy 
and  respect,  by  that  day's  post) ,  I.  mentioned  as  my  reason  for 
arriving  at  this  decision,  first,  that  I  had  found  it  impossible 
to  win  the  confidence  of  his  son.  Secondly,  that  his  son  had 
that  morning  suddenly  and  mysteriously  left  my  house  for 
London,  and  that  I  must  decline  accepting  any  further  re 
sponsibility  toward  him,  as  the  necessary  consequence. 

I  had  put  my  letter  in  the  post-bag,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  a  little  easier  after  having  written  it,  when  my  house 
keeper  appeared  in  the  study,  with  a  very  grave  face,  and 
with  something  hidden,  apparently,  in  her  closed  hand. 

"Would  you  please  look,  sir,  at  what  we  have  found  in  the 
gentleman's  bedroom  since  he  went  away  this  morning  ?  " 

I  knew  the  housekeeper  to  possess  a  woman's  full  share  of 
that  amiable  weakness  of  the  sex  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
"curiosity."  I  had  also,  in  various  indirect  ways,  become 
aware  that  my  senior  pupil's  strange  departure  had  largely  in 
creased  the  disposition  among  the  women  of  my  household  to 
regard  him  as  the  victim  of  an  unhappy  attachment.  The 
time  was  ripe,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  for  checking  any  further 
gossip  about  him,  and  any  renewed  attempts  at  prying  into 
his  affairs  in  his  absence. 

"Your  only  business  in  my  pupil's  bedroom,"  I  said  to  the 
housekeeper,  "is  to  see  that  it  is  kept  clean,  and  that  it  is  pro 
perly  aired.  There  must  be  no  interference,  if  you  please, 
with  his  letters  or  his  papers,  or  with  anything  else  that  he 
has  left  behind  him.  Put  back  directly  whatever  you  may 
have  found  in  his  room." 

The  housekeeper  had  her  full  share  of  a  woman's  temper, 
as  well  as  of  a  woman's  curiosity.  She  listened  to  me  with  a 
rising  color,  and  a  just  perceptible  toss  of  the  h~ad. 

"  Must  I  put  it  back,  sir,  on  the  floor,  between  the  bed  and 
the  wall?  "she  inquired,  with  an  ironical  assumption  of  the 


JEROMETTE.  233 

humblest  deference  to  my  wishes.  "  That's  where  the  girl 
found  it  when  she  was  sweeping  the  room.  Anybody  can 
see  for  themselves,''  pursued  the  housekeeper,  indignantly, 
"that  the  poor  gentleman  has  gone  away  broken-hearted. 
And  there,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  hussy  who  is  the  cause  of 
it!" 

With  those  words  she  made  me  a  low  courtesy,  and  laid  a 
small  photographic  portrait  on  the  desk  at  which  I  was  sitting. 

I  looked  at  the  photograph. 

In  an  instant  my  heart  was  beating  wildly — my  head 
turned  giddy  —  the  housekeeper,  the  furniture,  the  walls  of 
the  room,  all  swayed  and  whirled  round  me. 

The  portrait  that  had  been  found  in  my  senior  pupil's  bed 
room  was  the  portrait  of  Jeromette  ! 


IX. 

I  had  sent  the  housekeeper  out  of  my  study.  I  was  alone, 
with  the  photograph  of  the  Frenchwoman  on  my  desk. 

There  could  surely  be  little  doubt  about  the  discovery  that 
had  burst  upon  me.  The  man  who  had  stolen  his  way  into 
my  house,  driven  by  the  terror  of  a  temptation  that  he  dared 
tiot  reveal,  and  the  man  who  had  been  my  unknown  rival  in 
the  by-gone  time,  were  one  and  the  same. 

Recovering  self-possession  enough  to  realize  this  plain 
truth,  the  inferences  that  followed  forced  their  way  into  my 
mind  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  unnamed  person  who  was 
the  obstacle  to  my  pupil's  prospects  in  life,  the  unnamed  per 
son  in  whose  company  he  was  assailed  by  temptations  which 
made  him  tremble  for  himself,  stood  revealed  to  me  now  as 
being,  in  all  human  probability,  no  other  than  Jeromette.  Had 
she  bound  him  in  the  fitters  of  the  marriage  which  he  had 
himself  proposed?  Had  she  discovered  his  place  of  refuge  in 


234  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

my  house?  And  was  the  letter  that  had  been  delivered  to  him 
of  her  writing?  Assuming  those  questions  to  be  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  what,  in  that  case,  was  his  "business  in  Lon 
don  "?  I  remembered  what  he  had  said  to  me  about  his  temp 
tations,  I  recalled  the  expression  that  had  crossed  his  face 
when  he  recognized  the  handwriting  on  the  letter  —  and  the 
conclusion  that  followed  literally  shook  me  to  the  soul.  Order 
ing  my  horse  to  be  saddled,  I  rode  instantly  to  the  railway 
station. 

The  train  by  which  he  had  travelled  to  London  had  reached 
the  terminus  nearly  an  hour  since.  The  one  useful  course 
that  I  could  take,  by  way  of  quieting  the  dreadful  misgivings 
crowding  one  after  another  on  my  mind,  was  to  telegraph  t<» 
Jeromette  at  the  address  at  which  I  had  last  seen  her.  I  senv 
the  subjoined  message,  prepaying  the  reply  :  — 

"  If  you  are  in  any  trouble,  telegraph  to  me.  I  will  be  with 
you  by  the  first  train.  Answer,  in  any  case." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  way  of  the  immediate  dispatch  of 
my  message.  And  yet  the  hours  passed,  and  no  answer  was 
received.  By  the  advice  of  the  clerk,  I  sent  a  second  tele 
gram  to  the  London  office, -requesting  an  explanation.  The 
reply  came  back  in  these  terms  :  — 

"  Improvements  in  street.  Houses  pulled  down.  No  trace 
of  person  named  in  telegram." 

I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  back  slowly  to  the  rectory. 

"  The  day  of  his  return  to  me  will  bring  with  it  the  darkest 
days  of  my  life." — "I  shall  die  young,  and  die  miserably. — 
"  Have  you  interest  enough  still  left  in  me  to  wish  to  hear  of 
it?" — "You  shall  hear  of  it ! "  Those  words  were  in  my 
memory  while  I  rode  home  in  the  cloudless  moonlight  night. 
They  were  so  vividly  present  to  me  that  I  could  hear  again 
her  pretty  foreign  accent,  her  quiet,  clear  tones,  as  she  spoke 
them.  For  the  rest,  the  emotions  of  that  memorable  day  had 


JEROMETTE.  235. 

worn  me  out.  The  answer  from  the  telegraph  office  had 
struck  me  with  a  strange  and  stony  despair.  My  mind  was  a 
blank.  I  had  no  thoughts.  I  had  no  tears. 

I  was  about  half-way  on  my  road  home,  and  I  had  just 
heard  the  clock  of  a  village  church  strike  ten,  when  I  became 
conscious,  little  by  little,  of  a  chilly  sensation  slowly  creeping 
through  and  through  me  to  the  bones.  The  warm  balmy  air 
of  a  summer  night  was  abroad.  It  was  the  month  of  July. 
In  the  month  of  July  was  it  possible  that  any  living  creature, 
in  good  health,  could  feel  cold?  It  was  not  possible  —  and 
yet  the  chilly  sensation  still  crept  through  and  through  me  to 
the  bones. 

I  looked  up.     I  looked  all  around  me. 

My  horse  was  walking  along  an  open  high-road.  Neither 
trees  nor  waters  were  near  me.  On  either  side  the  flat  fields 
stretched  away  bright  and  broad  in  the  moonlight. 

I  stopped  my  horse,  and  looked  around  me  again. 

Yes,  I  saw  it.  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  it.  A  pillar  of 
white  mist — between  five  and  six  feet  high,  as  well  as  I  could 
judge — was  moving  beside  me  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  on  my 
left  hand.  When  I  stopped,  the  white  mist  stopped.  When 
I  went  on,  the  white  mist  went  on.  I  pushed  my  horse  to  a 
trot,  the  pillar  of  mist  was  with  me.  I  urged  him  to  a  gallop, 
the  pillar  of  mist  was  with  me.  I  stopped  him  again,  the 
pillar  of  mist  stood  still. 

The  white  color  of  it  was  the  white  color  of  the  mist  which 
I  had  seen  over  the  river  on  the  night  when  I  had  gone  ta 
bid  her  farewell.  And  the  chill  which  had  then  crept 
through  me  to  the  bones  was  the  chill  that  was  creeping 
through  me  now. 

I  went  on  again  slowly.  The  white  mist  went  on  agair> 
slowly,  with  the  clear  bright  night  all  round  it. 


236  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

I  was  awed  rather  than  frightened.  There  was  one  mo 
ment,  and  one  only,  when  the  fear  came  to  me  that  my  rea 
son  might  be  shaken.  I  caught  myself  keeping  time  to  the 
slow  tramp  of  the  horse's  feet  with  the  slow  utterance  of  these 
words,  repeated  over  and  over  again:  "Jeromette  is  dead. 
Jeromette  is  dead."  But  my  will  was  still  my  own  ;  I  was 
able  to  control  myself,  to  impose  silence  on  my  own  mutter 
ing  lips.  And  I  rode  on  quietly.  And  the  pillar  of  mist 
went  quietly  with  me. 

My  groom  was  waiting  for  my  return  at  the  rectory  gate. 
I  pointed  to  the  mist,  passing  through  the  gate  with  me. 

"Do  you  see  anything  there?"  I  said. 

The  man  looked  at  me  in  astonishment. 

I  entered  the  rectory.  The  housekeeper  met  me  in  the 
hall.  I  pointed  to  the  mist  entering  with  me. 

"  Do  you  see  anything  at  my  side  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  housekeeper  looked  at  me  as  the  groom  had  looked  at 
me.  "I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well,  sir,''  she  said.  "Your 
color  is  all  gone ;  you  are  shivering.  Let  me  get  you  a 
glass  of  wine." 

I  went  into  my  study,  on  the  ground-floor,  and  took  the 
chair  at  my  desk.  The  photograph  still  lay  where  I  had  left 
it.  The  pillar  of  mist  floated  round  the  table,  and  stopped 
opposite  to  me,  behind  the  photograph. 

The  housekeeper  brought  in  the  wine.  I  put  the  glass  to 
my  lips,  and  set  it  down  again.  The  chill  of  the  mist  was  in 
the  wine.  There  was  no  taste,  no  reviving  spirit  in  it.  The 
presence  of  the  housekeeper  oppressed  me.  My  dog  had  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  room.  The  presence  of  the  animal  op 
pressed  me.  I  said  to  the  woman,  "  Leave  me  by  myself, 
and  take  the  dog  with  you." 

They  went  out,  and  left  me  alone  in  the  room. 


JEROMETTE.  237 

I  sat  looking  at  the  pillar  of  mist  hovering  opposite  to  me. 

It  lengthened  slowly  until  it  reached  to  the  ceiling.  As  it 
lengthened  it  grew  bright  and  luminous.  A  time  passed,  and 
a  shadowy  appearance  showed  itself  in  the  centre  of  the  light. 
Little  by  little  the  shadowy  appearance  took  the  outline  of  a 
human  form.  Soft  brown  eyes,  tender  and  melancholy, 
looked  at  me  through  the  unearthly  light  in  the  mist.  The 
head  and  the  rest  of  the  face  broke  next  slowly  on  my  view. 
Then  the  figure  gradually  revealed  itself,  moment  by  mo 
ment,  downward  arid  downward  to  the  feet.  She  stood  before 
me  as  I  had  last  seen  her,  in  her  purple  merino  dress,  with 
the  black  silk  apron,  with  the  white  handkerchief  tied  loosely 
round  her  neck.  She  stood  before  me  in  the  gentle  beauty 
that  I  remembered  so  well,  and  looked  at  me  as  she  had 
looked  when  she  gave  me  her  last  kiss,  when  her  tears  had 
dropped  on  my  cheek. 

I  fell  on  my  knees  at  the  table.  I  stretched  out  my  hands 
to  her  imploringly.  I  said,  "Speak  to  me,  oh,  once  again 
speak  to  me,  Jeromette  ! " 

Her  eyes  rested  on  me  with  a  divine  compassion  in  them. 
She  lifted  her  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  photograph  on  my 
desk  with  a  gesture  which  bade  me  turn  the  card.  I  turned 
it.  The  name  of  the  man  who  had  left  my  house  that  morn 
ing  was  inscribed  on  it  in  her  own  handwriting. 

I  looked  up  at  her  again  when  I  had  read  it.  She  lifted 
her  hand  once  more,  and  pointed  to  the  handkerchief  round 
her  neck.  As  I  looked  at  it  the  fair  white  silk  changed  hor 
ribly  in  color ;  the  fair  white  silk  became  darkened  and 
drenched  in  blood. 

A  moment  more,  and  the  vision  of  her  began  to  grow  dim. 
By  slow  degrees  the  figure,  then  the  face,  faded  back  into  the 
shadowy  appearance  that  I  had  first  seen.  The  luminous 


.238  PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 

inner  light  died  out  in  the  white  mist.  The  mist  itself 
dropped  slowly  downward,  floated  a  moment  in  airy  circles 
on  the  floor,  vanished.  Nothing  was  before  me  but  the 
familiar  wall  of  the  room,  and  the  photograph  lying  face 
downward  on  my  desk. 


X. 

The  next  day  the  newspapers  reported  the  discovery  of  a 
murder  in  London.  A  Frenchwoman  was  the  victim.  She 
had  been  killed  by  a  wound  in  the  throat.  The  crime  had 
been  discovered  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  on  the  previ 
ous  night. 

I  leave  you  to  draw  your  conclusion  from  what  I  have 
related.  My  own  faith  in  the  reality  of  the  apparition  is  im 
movable.  I  say  and  believe  that  Jeromette  kept  her  word 
with  me.  She  died  young,  and  died  miserably.  And  I 
heard  of  it  from  herself. 

Take  up  the  trial  again,  and  look  at  the  circumstances 
that  were  revealed  during  the  investigation  in  court.  His 
motive  for  murdering  her  is  there. 

You  will  see  that  she  did  indeed  marry  him  privately  ;  that 
they  lived  together  contentedly  until  the  fatal  day  when  she 
discovered  that  his  fancy  had  been  caught  by  another  woman  ; 
that  violent  quarrels  took  place  between  them  from  that  time 
to  the  time  when  my  sermon  showed  him  his  own  deadly 
hatred  toward  her,  reflected  in  the  case  of  another  man  ;  that 
she  discovered  his  place  .of  retreat  in  my  house,  and  threat 
ened  him  by  letter  with  the  public  assertion  of  her  conjugal 
rights ;  lastly,  that  a  man,  variously  described  oy  dilferent 
witnesses,  was  seen  leaving  the  door  of  her  lodgings  on  the 
night  of  the  murder.  The  law,  advancing  no  further  than 


J  E  R  O  M  E  T  T  E  . 


239 


this,  may  have  discovered  circumstances  of  suspicion,  but  no 
certainty.  The  law,  in  default  of  direct  evidence  to  convict 
the  prisoner,  may  have  rightly  decided  in  letting  him  go  free. 
But  /  persist  in  believing  that  the  man  was  guilty,  /de 
clare  that  he,  and  he  alone,  was  the  murderer  of  Jercmette, 
And  now  you  know  why. 


LOOKING  INTO  THE  WELL. 


LOOKING  INTO  THE  WELL. 


BY   LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON. 


I. 


P  in  the  maples  the  robins  sung, 

The  winds  blew  over  the  locusts  high, 
And   along  the  path  by  their  boughs  o'er 

hung 

We  wandered  gaily,  Lulu  and  I— 
Wandered  along  in  pleasant  talk, 
Pausing  our  nursery  tales  to  tell, 
Till  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  shaded  walk, 
And  sat,  at  last,  by  the  moss-grown  well. 
She  was  a  child,  and  so  was  I  : 

What  matter,  then,  that  we  told  our  love — 
Whispered  it  there,  with  no  one  nigh, 

Save  birds  that  sang  in  the  trees  above. 
I  looked  down  into  her  shy  blue  eyes, 
She  at  my  face  in  the  shaded  well ; 
I  saw  the  glow  to  her  fair  cheek  rise, 
Like  red  in  the  heart  of  an  ocean  shell. 


244  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

II. 

Again  in  the  trees  the  robins  sung— 
The  gold  had  deepened  upon  her  hair— 

The  locusts  over  the  pathway  hung, 
To  look  at  her  face  so  still  and  fair. 

I  said  no  word — I  sat  by  her  side, 
Contented  to  hold  her  hand  in  mine, 

Dreaming  of  love  and  a  fair  young  bride- 
Visions  that  truth  had  made  divine. 

The  robin's  song  took  a  clearer  tone, 

.     The  sky  wore  a  tenderer,  deeper  blue; 

Her  face  in  the  limpid  waters  shone, 
I  thought  her  eyes  were  holy  and  true. 

III. 
I  walked  alone  to  the  shaded  well, 

When  locusts  bloomed  in  the  next  yea /A.  June — 
The  shadows  along  my  pathway  fell, 

The  wild  birds  sang  a  sorrowful  tune. 
She  had  given  her  shining  hair's  young  gold, 

Her  holy  brow  and  her  eyes  of  blue, 
The  form  I  had  scarcely  dared  to  fold, 

To  a  wealthy  suitor  who  came  to  woo — 
Sold,  for  jewels  and  land  and  name, 

Youth  and  beauty,  and  love  and  grace. 
Alone  I  cursed  the  sin  and  shame, 

And  started  to  see  my  own  dark  face 
Mirrored  there  in  the  well  below, 

With  its  haggard  cheek  and  its  lines  of  care, 
Where  I  once  had  seen  a  girlish  brow, 

And  shy  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 


LOOKING     INTO     THE     WELL.  245 

IV. 

Years  have  passed  since  that  summer  day 

Went  over  the  hills  with  its  silent  tread  : 
I  walk  alone  where  its  glory  lay — 

I  am  lonely,  and  Lulu  is  dead. 
Dust  is  thick  on  her  shining  hair, 

A  shroud  is  folded  across  her  breast, 
The  winds  blow  over  the  locusts  where 

She  lies  at  last,  alone  and  at  rest. 
Youth  and  beauty,  and  love  and  grace, 

Wealth  and  station,  joy  and  pain  ; 
If  she  dream  at  all  in  that  lonely  place, 

She  will  know,  at  length,  that  her  life  was  vain. 

V. 
I  do  not  think  of  her  heart's  disgrace, 

o  * 

Looking  into  the  waters  there, 
For  I  seem  to  see  once  more  a  face 

With  shy  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
Out  among  men  she  walks  by  my  side — 

For  me  she  lives  whom  the  world  calls  dead — 
I  talk  at  night  to  my  shadow  bride, 

And  pillow  in  dreams  her  golden  head 
They  broke  her  heart — so  the  gossips  tell — 

Who  sold  her  hand  for  wealth  and  a  name  ; 
But  I  see  her  face  in  the  cool,  deep  well, 

And  its  virginal  beauty  is  still  the  same. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

GEORGE    B.    LORING. 

URING  one  of  the  profound  and  interesting- 
conversations  said  to  have  taken  place 
between  Mr.  Hopkins  and  Dr.  Parker,  at 
the  cheerful  fireside  of  the  former  in  the 
town  of  Jotham,  the  subject  of  human 
•development  was  briefly  and  pointedly  discussed.  Said  Drs 
Parker,  with  some  degree  of  warmth  and  perhaps  a  little 
dogmatism  :  "  But  man  defies  all  laws.  He  is  not  as  strong 
as  a  horse  it  is  true,  but  what  of  disease  or  medicine  will 
kill  a  horse  twice  harms  him  not  at  all.  He  is  not  physi 
cally  powerful,  but  he  is  physically  enduring,  and,  through 
the  agency  of  his  spirit,  physically  triumphant  over  space 
and  time.  At  a  certain  point  he  leaves  the  animal  economy 
and  soars  into  the  regions  of  a  Divine  power,  lives  and  works 
in  spite  of  disease ;  implants  upon  his  race,  through  the 
agency  of  his  soul,  faculties,  moral  and  intellectual,  which 
become  at  last  a  part  of  his  physical  organization,  and  pro 
claims  everywhere,  and  in  every  way,  that  he  is  not  a  beast. 
Reverently  and  devoutly  I  recognize  the  Divine  power  which 
manifested  itself,  not  so  much  when  it  made  the  earth  and 
the  sea,  as  when  it  breathed  into  man  an  immortal  spirit." 
The  doctor  was  undoubtedly  a  keen  observer,  and  some 
what  disposed  to  philosophical  investigation.  He  knew  how 


250  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

much  of  his  own  moral  character  and  mental  power,  how 
much  of  his  tastes,  and  modes  of  thought,  and  impulse,  how 
much  of  his  inspiration,  how  much  of  his  peculiarities  even 
and  his  physical  organization,  were  due  not  only  to  the  quali 
ties  transmitted  to  him  by  many  generations  of  ancestors, 
but  to  the  modifying  influences  of  associations,  interests, 
habits  of  thought  and  life,  occupations,  affections,  which  had 
surrounded  him  and  his  fathers,  both  in  the  open  light  of 
day  and  before  they  had  begun  to  draw  the  breath  of  life. 
Man's  spiritual  impressions  are  a  law  unto  his  body.  And,  as 
he  steps  forth  into  life,  he  carries  not  only  his  ancestral  shape 
and  feature,  but  those  higher  powers  which  mould  his  form, 
give  light  to  his  countenance,  and  receive  their  own  ex 
istence  from  the  Divine  Hand  which,  because  it  is  spiritual, 
has  shaped  and  ruled  the  material  world,  from  the  dawn  of 
creation.  All  nature  contributes  to  the  development  of  man. 
The  best  angels  are  always  ready  to  wait  on  him  from  his. 
birth,  as  they  have  tenderly  watched  his  coming  ;  and  they 
only  retire  from  their  sacred  service,  when  they  are  rudely 
driven  away.  The  subtile  and  delicate  forces  which  combine 
to  work  out  commanding  human  greatness,  come  not  with 
observation,  and  we  must  content  ourselves  with  surveying 
the  field  from  whose  bosom  the  great  creation  springs.  We 
would  gladly  know  more  ;  but  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  this. 

When,  therefore,  we  approach  the  investigation  of  a 
character  like  Hawthorne's,  we  start  with  a  feeling  that  our 
vision  must  inevitably  be  limited.  His  horizon  is  so  much 
more  vast  than  ours,  that  we  hardly  expect  to  view  it,  either 
with  the  naked  eye,  or  with  any  artificial  aid  within  our 
reach.  But  we  can  turn  with  interest  and  satisfaction  to  the 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  2$  I 

circumstances  under  which  he  was  developed,  and  the  in 
fluences  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  The  fact  that  he  was 
born  in  Salem  may  not  amount  to  much  to  other  people,  but 
it  amounted  to  a  great  deal  to  him.  The  sturdy  and  defiant 
spirit  of  his  progenitor,  who  first  landed  on  these  shores, 
found  a  congenial  abode  among  the  people  of  Naumkeag, 
after  having  vainly  endeavored  to  accommodate  itself  to  the 
more  imposing  ecclesiasticism  of  Winthrop  and  his  colony  at 
Trimountain,  and  of  Endicott  at  his  new  home.  He  was  a 
stern  separatist,  it  is  true,  and  had  that  liberal  religious  faith 
which  made  the  Plymouth  colony  the  home  of  the  perse 
cuted,  and  gave  it  immortal  power  in  controlling  the  religious 
and  political  systems  of  our  land  ;  but  he  was  also  a  warrior, 
a  politician,  a  legislator,  a  legal  adviser,  a  merchant,  an  orator 
with  persuasive  speech.  His  piety  seldom  drove  him  to 
fanaticism,  and  he  had  a  sound  and  just  understanding  of  the 
wants  of  those  about  him,  and  of  the  form  of  government 
under  which  they  were  to  live — an  understanding  so  clear 
that  whenever  he  surrendered  as  a  magistrate  to  the  heated 
and  intolerant  spirit  of  his  times,  he  did  it  reluctantly  and 
with  mental  and  moral  protest.  He  had  great  powers  of 
mind  and  body,  and  forms  a  conspicuous  figure  in  that  im 
posing  and  heroic  group  which  stands  around  the  cradle  of 
New  England.  The  generations  of  the  family  that  followed 
took  active  and  prominent  part  in  the  manly  adventures 
which  marked  our  entire  colonial  period.  With  less  religious 
demonstration  than  the  first  of  their  line  on  this  continent, 
they  were  severe  and  gloomy  justices,  strong  and  successful 
farmers,  bold  and  adventurous  mariners,  down  to  the  time 
when  the  great  author  was  born.  It  was  among  the  family 
traditions  gathered  from  the  Indian  wars,  the  tragic  and 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 

awful  spectre  of  the  witchcraft  delusion,  the  wild  life  of  the 
privateer,  that  he  first  saw  the  light,  and  while  he  was  yet  a 
child  the  death  of  his  father  in  a  distant  port  was  impressed 
upon  his  mind  as  one  of  the  solemn  mysteries  of  the  sea.  It 
was  not  a  conspicuous,  but  it  was  an  intimate  part  which  his 
progenitors  performed  in  that  period  which  constitutes  the 
romance  of  American  history.  Brought  by  the  necessities  of 
their  life  into  immediate  contact  with  the  hardy  elements  of 
society — in  fact,  forming  a  part  of  them,  and  being  in  no  way 
removed  from  them  either  by  wealth  or  civil  position — they 
preserved  the  characteristics  of  that  era  in  all  their  freshness 
and  power.  They  were  yeomanry  on  the  land — sea-gods  on 
the  sea.  They  grew  up  and  performed  their  part  among  the 
tough  experiences  of  a  maritime  people,  and  they  lived  in  a 
social  atmosphere  filled  with  all  the  peculiarities  and  eccentri 
cities  which  gather  in  the  purlieus  of  a  town,  where  every  kin 
dred  nation  and  tongue  under  heaven  find  their  abode,  and 
into  whose  daily  life  the  highways  of  the  sea  pour  every 
variety  of  instinct,  thought,  and  speech.  No  adventitious 
circumstances  enervated  their  natural  faculties.  There  was 
never  a  more  intense  Hathorne  than  the  father  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  the  silent,  sombre  sailor,  who  represented  all  the 
courage  and  power  of  the  family,  with  a  busy  and  thoughtful 
mind  which  dwelt  upon  that  curious  and  interesting  family-re 
cord  with  a  sort  of  superstitious  awe  and  deep  admiration.  So 
far  as  any  inheritance  of  faculties  from  his  father's  line  is 
concerned,  Hawthorne  had  a  right  to  be  a  powerful,  thought 
ful,  reticent,  dreamy,  brooding,  sensible,  unambitious,  retiring 
man — and  he  was.  And  it  so  happened  that  his  mother 
simply  added  to  all  these  qualities  greater  intensity  and  more 
fervor  from  her  own  soul,  solemn  enough  by  nature,  but 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  253 

doubly  solemn   under  the  weight  of  that  calamity  which   left 
her  a  widow  with  a  young  family  in  early  life. 

The  qualities  of  mind  and  heart,  which  were  active  in  these 
many  generations  of  toil,  and  trial,  and  varied  experience  on. 
land  and  sea,  strong  as  they  were  in  their  primitive  state, 
were  full  of  admirable  power  when,  free  from  depressing  cir 
cumstances  and  purified  of  all  dross,  they  entered  upon  a 
field  of  intellectual  labor.  The  boy,  who,  in  after  life,  was 
counted  by  some  as  gloomy  and  sombre,  was  abounding  in  a 
rich  and  mellow  humor — the  seafaring  humor  of  his  class. 
"John  Knights  is  a  boy  of  a  very  quarrelsome  disposition," 
he  quaintly  remarked  of  a  schoolmate  with  whom  he  was  in 
constant  battle.  "  Swapped  pocket-knives  with  Robinson 
Cook,  yesterday.  Jacob  Dingley  says  that  he  cheated  me ; 
but  I  think  not,  for  I  cut  a  fishing-pole  this  morning  and  did 
it  well ;  besides,  he  is  a  Quaker,  and  they  never  cheat  " — he 
enters  in  his  youthful  book  of  thoughts.  His  description  of  a 
"  solemn-faced  old  horse  hitched  to  the  trough  "  is  inimitable 
in  its  boyish  pathos.  It  was  a  delicate  and  chaste  humor 
which  he  had  as  a  boy,  and  it  never  deserted  him  through  his 
long  literary  life.  Even  his  wit  soared  into  the  regions  of 
humor,  and  avoided  the  low  association  of  ideas  which  lies  at 
the  foundation  of  much  of  the  acceptable  wit  of  the  world. 
Of  "  Gulliver's  Travels"  he  says:  "  The  wit  is  obscene,  and 
the  lies  too  false."  Hawthorne's  perception  was  exquisitely 
keen  also.  His  eyes  were  as  quick  and  sharp  as  were  those 
of  his  ancestor  with  his  "  eye  to  the  wind'ard  "  in  a  gale  at 
sea.  Not  a  bird,  not  a  beast,  nor  a  flower,  nor  a  twig,  nor 
cloud,  nor  tree  escaped  him,  when  he  followed  his  uncle  and. 
his  men  on  their  tramps  along  the  shores  of  Sebago  Lake. 
And  so  it  was  through  life.  Strolling  along  the  street  in 


254  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

apparent  reverie,  dreaming  on  his  tall  stool  at  the  custom 
house,  pacing  his  solitary  walk  in  the  country,  at  'home  or 
abroad,  he  saw  all  that  was  to  be  seen  ;  saw  more  with  his 
eyes  shut  than  most  people  do  with  their  eyes  open.  He 
admired  facts  and  things,  and  reached  their  philosophical 
meaning  by  instinct,  and  not  by  a  process  of  reasoning.  He 
saw  things,  too,  just  as  they  are,  whether  things  of  the  past 
or  the  present.  If  any  one  supposes  that  he  had  a  distorted 
and  discolored  view  of  society,  its  thoughts  and  incidents 
and  individuals  in  the  early  periods  of  our  Colonial  history, 
he  must  remember  that  no  man  has  ever  described  persons 
and  things  about  him  better  than  he  did — few  so  well ;  and 
that  the  eye  which  saw  England  and  Rome  as  no  one  else  has 
seen  them,  saw  also  Naumkeag  and  Trimountain  just  as  clear 
ly.  He  had,  moreover,  the  keen  insight  into  and  understand 
ing  of  human  nature,  which  belongs  to  those  who  are  early 
thrown  upon  their  own  resources,  and  are  tossed  about  from 
shore  to  shore  over  all  seas  and  among  all  peoples.  We  have 
had  many  essays  upon  the  Puritan  character,  many  treatises 
of  Puritan  history,  many  pictures  of  Puritan  life  in  New  Eng 
land  ;  but  the  secret  chambers  were  first  unlocked  and  opened 
by  him  in  the  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  and  we  saw  the  Puritan  as 
he  was,  his  heaven  and  his  hell.  We  have  had  many  bright 
and  elaborate  descriptions  of  Rome,  its  art  and  architecture ; 
but  never  an  inside  view  of  the  artist's  life  there,  never  a 
picture  of  the  Italian  genius  which  presides  over  that  land  of 
beauty  and  the  beast,  until  this  great  magician  created  the 
"  Marble  Faun."  Salem  in  the  "  House  of  the  Seven  Ga 
bles,"  and  Concord  in  "  Mosses  from  an  old  Manse,"  are 
Salem  and  Concord  in  intense  reality.  His  pictures  are  not 
the  fruits  of  a  diseased  imagination,  but  they  are  the  actual 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  255 

life  as  seen  by  the  eye  of  Him  who  made  it.  If  he  makes 
virtue  as  beauteous  as  a  star,  and  vice  as  hideous  as  a  rayless 
night,  so  do  nature  and  the  divine  law.  He  gives  us  life 
as  it  is,  stripped  of  all  disguises  and  all  ornament  ;  not  un 
lovely  and  repulsive,  but  the  mysterious  and  fascinating  pro 
blem  which  has  always  been  the  great  study  of  mankind.  The 
heroic  qualities  may  be  concealed  by  adverse  circumstances, 
as  the  low  and  mean  ones  may  be  by  the  gloss  of  good  for 
tune.  The  work  of  portraying  this  may  seem  dark  and 
gloomy  and  mysterious,  but  it  is  the  work  of  a  creator  who 
so  often  4<  behind  a  frowning  providence  "  "  hides  a  smiling 
face,"  and  "  whose  ways  are  not  as  our  ways  "  and  "  whose 
thoughts  are  not  as  our  thoughts."  Hawthorne's  pictures 
may  at  times  have  been  gloomy  but  they  are  always  true  to 
nature,  and  the  gloom  is  only  the  shadow  falling  upon  the 
landscape  to  perfect  its  beauty.  His  art  was  so  guided  and 
•controlled  by  natural  laws  that  all  artistic  design  was  thor 
oughly  hidden  ;  and  even  the  most  fantastic  of  his  shapes 
filled  the  places  assigned  them  with  as  much  fitness  and  pro 
priety  as  do  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  For  this  work,  he 
preserved  his  natural  powers  as  few  writers,  great  or  small, 
have  done.  He  seems  not  to  have  derived  great  strength 
from  books.  He  was  never  a  student.  He  read  with  the 
same  eagerness  that  he  looked  about  him  ;  read  "  Hogg's 
Tales  "  and  "  Caleb  Williams,"  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  Scott 
-and  Godwin,  and  his  contemporaries  in  every  literary  walk — 
but  not  science,  nor  theology,  nor  law,  nor  medicine,  nor  the 
•literature  of  other  lands.  He  was  no  investigator,  no  explorer. 
He  never  read  to  sharpen  his  wits,  or  studied  to  crowd  his 
mind.  He  read,  because  he  liked  the  companionship  of 
books;  they  were  good  friends  for  his  solitude.  But,  although 


256  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

he  had  the  humor  of  Charles  Lamb,  and  the  pathos  of  Rich- 
ter,  and  the  penetration  of  Goldsmith,  he  had  no  need  of 
their  support.  He  knew  well  what  he  did  know,  but  he  sel 
dom  introduced  his  knowledge  into  his  books — never  ostenta 
tiously  or  like  a  pedant.  He  never  presented  his  knowledge 
of  history  in  a  novel,  like  Scott ;  he  never  poured  out  his 
contempt  for  social  wrong  in  tales,  like  Dickens;  he  never 
exposed  the  hollow  folly  of  society,  like  Thackeray ;  but  he 
wrought  the  work  of  all  into  his  marvellous  volumes,  not  as 
the  result  of  careful  study,  but  as  the  consequence  of  that 
commanding  vision  with  which  he  surveyed  society  and  the 
acuteness  with  which  he  read  the  heart  of  man.  And  yet, 
while  he  embraces  within  himself  the  many  sides  of  human 
experience,  and  has  .an  appropriate  word  for  all,  and  evi 
dently  understands  and  is  familiar  with  them  all,  it  has  been 
justly  said  of  him  :  "  He  is  no  philosopher  for  the  poor  or 
the  rich,  for  the  ignorant  or  the  learned,  for  the  righteous  or 
the  wicked,  for  any  special  rank  or  condition  in  life,  but  for 
human  nature  as  given  by  God  into  the  hands  of  man.  He 
calls  us  to  be  indignant  witnesses  of  no  particular  social,  reli 
gious,  or  political  enormity.  He  asks  for  no  admiration  of 
this  or  that  individual  or  associated  virtue.  The  face  of  so 
ciety,  with  its  manifold  features,  never  comes  before  you  as. 
you  study  the  extraordinary  experience  of  his  men  and 
women,  except  as  a  necessary  setting  of  the  picture." 

In  the  performance  of  his  literary  work,  I  repeat,  Haw 
thorne's  pictures  are  all  extraordinary.  They  may  be  com 
pared  with  the  domestic  groups  of  the  Dutch  painters,  with 
the  addition  of  the  dreamy,  misty  coloring  which  gives  such  a 
charm  to  Allston's  dark  landscape,  where  some  mysterious 
figure  is  used  to  give  life  to  the  scene.  His  characters,  which 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  257 

are  all  strong  and  natural,  are  never  left  by  him  until  the 
supernatural  has  been  expressed.  His  grotesqueness  is  inimi 
table.  His  little  cannibal  devoured  a  whole  caravan  before 
he  reached  his  growth.  His  Pyncheon  hens,  with  their  aris 
tocratic  attenuation,  are  the  very  expression  of  gallinaceous 
absurdity.  Old  Venner  is  a  model  of  a  fussy  fixture  of  an 
active  pauper.  Hepzibah  has  not  her  equal  as  a  representa 
tive  of  her  peculiar  class.  Starved,  and  withered,  and  pinched, 
in  her  poor  old  heart  for  the  want  of  human  sympathy  and 
warm  human  experience,  she  is  pursed  and  prim  in  her  griefs- 
and  joys,  and  peevish  in  her  kindness.  Never  has  there  been 
seen  a  better  delineation  of  an  active,  uneasy,  protean  Yan 
kee,  half  speculator  and  half  philosopher,  than  Hoigrave. 
We  know  of  no  man  who,  with  all  this  universality  of  percep 
tion  and  all  this  quaintness  of  conception,  deserves  to  be 
called  American  so  truly  as  Hawthorne.  Cooper  has  deline 
ated  the  forest  life  and  its  savage  actors.  Judd  has  carried 
you  "down  East,"  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  crudest  mixture 
of  half-fledged  philosophy  and  extravagant  sentiment  and 
unnatural  speculation,  has  taught  the  vulgar  provincialisms 
of  the  sawmill  and  the  barn-yard.  And  we  have  had  scenes 
from  the  Revolution,  from  life  at  the  South,  East,  and  West, 
from  the  plantation,  the  prairie,  and  the  village.  But  the 
past  and  present  of  American  thought,  of  American  psycho 
logy,  especially  as  exhibited  in  New  England,  has  had  no 
interpreter  like  Hawthorne,  in  the  Puritanism  of  the  "  Scar 
let  Letter  "  and  in  the  Yankeeism  of  the  "  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables."  Nor  have  ever  before  the  physical  features 
of  society  met  with  so  true  an  artist.  The  stiff,  formal  crowd 
which  gathered  around  Hester  Prynne,  and  the  busy,  gossip 
ing  neighbors  who  came  morning  and  evening  to  trade  with 


258  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Hepzibah  in  her  cent-shop — the  children  of  that  day  and  the 
children  of  this,  are  all  American.  And  yet,  while  we  are 
constantly  struck  with  these  graphic  touches  of  truth,  we  are 
sometimes  lost  in  the  apparent  inconsistency  of  the  design. 
It  may  be  correct,  and  from  the  highest  standpoint  it  un 
doubtedly  is;  but  it  is  difficult  to  see  it.  It  is  pleasant,  we 
confess,  to  have  something  left  for  the  imagination  to  do,  if 
that  something  be  not  too  much.  But  we  are  not  quite  pre 
pared  for  such  an  unexplained  determination,  for  instance,  as. 
Holgrave  and  Phcebe  arrive  at,  in  the  "  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  when,  on  the  threshold  of  the  "  chamber  of  horrors," 
they  rush  into  the  beauty  of  everlasting  love,  and  we  can 
only  account  for  it  on  the  ground  that  they  could  be  aroused 
only  by  an  extraordinary  occasion.  We  feel  compelled  to< 
question  whether  the  unsuspecting  Phoebe  was  quite  willing 
to  recognize  "the  miracle  without  which  every  human  exis 
tence  is  a  blank,"  "  the  bliss  which  makes  all  things  true  and 
beautiful  and  holy,"  on  so  short  a  notice,  however  much  it 
may  have  filled  the  heart  of  Holgrave,  who  had  evidently 
gone  through  the  various  degrees  initiatory ;  and  yet  there 
has  been  many  a  sudden  burst  of  sunlight  upon  many  an 
astonished  Phrebe  in  this  world.  The  beauty  and  grandeur 
and  grace  of  art  are  very  visible  in  Hawthorne,  but  they  are 
often  veiled  in  an  awful  mystery,  as  is  the  majesty  in  Michael 
Angelo's  "  Day  and  Night."  In  addition  to  this  charm,  his. 
literary  phraseology  is  most  fascinating.  Some  of  his  sen 
tences  might  pass  into  proverbs,  such  as :  "  This  feeling  had 
the  energy  of  disease  "  ;  "  The  topsy-turvy  commonwealth  of 
sleep  "  ;  "  To  spend  an  eternity  in  a  vain  effort  to  make:  his 
accounts  balance  ";  "  The  shadowy  food  of  aristocratic  re 
miniscences  "  ;  "  Still  flickered  his  gusty  mirth  "  ;  "  Sprouted 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  259 

up  in  graveyard  grass,"  are  a  few  instances  of  a  constantly- 
recurring  felicity  of  expression,  full  of  strength  when  even 
thus  isolated,  and  immeasurably  forcible  with  their  context. 

Throughout  his  life,  Hawthorne  led  a  twofold  existence^ 
a  real  and  a  supernatural.  As  a  man,  he  was  the  realest  of 
men.  From  childhood  to  old  age  he  had  great  physical  pow 
ers.  His  massive  head  sat  upon  a  strong  and  muscular  neck, 
and  his  chest  was  broad  and  capacious.  His  strength  was 
great ;  his  hand  and  foot  were  large  and  well  made.  He  never 
knew  the  feebleness  of  youth,  that  unlucky  check  to  many  a 
promising  career,  nor  the  weakness  of  old  age.  In  walking, 
he  had  a  firm  step  and  a  great  stride  without  effort.  In  early 
manhood  he  had  abounding  health,  a  good  digestion,  a  hearty 
enjoyment  of  food.  His  excellent  physical  condition  gave 
him  a  placid  and  even  temper,  a  cheerful  spirit.  He  was  a 
silent  man,  and  often  a  moody  one,  but  never  irritable  or 
morose;  his  organization  was  too  grand  for  that.  He  was  a 
most  delightful  companion.  In  conversation  he  was  never 
controversial,  never  authoritative,  and  never  absorbing.  In  a 
multitude,  his  silence  was  oppressive  ;  but,  with  a  single  com 
panion,  his  talk  flowed  on  sensibly,  quietly,  and  full  of  wis 
dom  and  shrewdness.  He  discussed  books  with  wonderful 
acuteness,  sometimes  with  startling  power  and  with  an  unex 
pected  verdict,  as  if  Shakspere  were  discussing  Ben  Jonson. 
He  analyzed  men,  their  characters  and  motives  and  capacity, 
with  great  penetration,  impartially  if  a  stranger  or  an  enemy, 
with  the  tenderest  and  most  touching  justice  if  a  friend.  He 
was  fond  of  the  companionship  of  all  who  were  in  sympathy 
with  this  real  and  human  side  of  his  life.  A  genuine  charac 
ter  was  very  attractive  to  him.  And  so  in  the  "  Scarlet  Let 
ter  "  he  warms  over  the  custom-house  clerk  and  the  old  col- 


260  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

lector,  because  each  was  perfect  in  his  way,  although,  perhaps, 
that  way  might  not,  in  all  things,  be  of  the  best.  Men  who 
did  not  meddle  with  him  he  loved,  men  who  made  no  de 
mands  on  him,  who  offered  him  the  repose  of  genial  com 
panionship.  His  life-long  friends  were  of  this  description, 
and  his  loyalty  to  them  was  chivalrous  and  fearless,  and  so 
generous  that  when  they  differed  from  him  in  matters  of 
opinion  he  rose  at  once  above  the  difference  and  adhered  to 
them  for  what  they  really  were  ;  and  these  friends  were  usu 
ally  remarkable  for  great  force  of  one  description  or  another. 
Of  General  Pierce,  after  a  long  discussion  of  his  character  and 
career,  he  said,  with  inexpressible  sadness  in  his  tone:  "  It  is 
so  hard  for  Frank  to  get  a  new  idea !  "  Of  the  dedication  of 
"  Our  Old  Home  "  to  General  Pierce,  he  said,  in  face  of  the 
most  bitter  opposition,  the  strongest  threats,  the  most  urgent 
appeals :  "  I  cannot  withdraw  that  dedication  and  wound  my 
friend.  My  loyalty  to  him  is  involved.  I  would  not  do  it, 
even  if  the  financial  success  of  the  book  depended  upon  it." 
And  he  said  this,  not  in  the  heat  of  passion,  but  with  a  calm 
and  generous  courage.  In  his  intercourse  with  his  friends,  he 
seldom  discussed  his  books.  Adverse  criticism,  he  never 
read ;  and  while  he  was  encouraged  by  approval  he  never 
required  the  stimulus  of  flattery,  nor  was  he  disheartened  by 
dissent.  Placid,  peaceful,  calm,  and  retiring  as  he  was,  in  all 
the  ordinary  events  of  life,  he  was  tempestuous  and  irresisti 
ble  when  roused.  An  attempt  on  the  part  of  a  rough  and 
overbearing  sea-captain  to  interfere  with  his  business  as  an 
inspector  of  the  customs  in  charge  of  his  ship,  was  met  with 
such  a  terrific  uprising  of  spiritual  and  physical  wrath  that 
the  dismayed  captain  fled  up  the  wharf  and  took  refuge  at 
the  feet  of  him  who  sat  at  the  receipt  of  customs,  enquiring, 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  26l 

with  a  sailor's  emotion  and  a  sailor's  tongue,  "  What,  in  God's 
name,  have  you  sent  on  board  my  ship  for  an  inspector  ?  " 
He  knew  no  such  thing  as  fear ;  was  scrupulously  honest  ; 
was  unwavering  in  his  fidelity;  conscientious  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duty.  There  may  have  been  men  of  more  latent 
power,  but  I  have  known  no  man  more  impressive,  none  in 
whom  the  great  reposing  strength  seemed  clad  in  such  a  robe 
of  sweetness  as  he  wore.  I  saw  him  on  the  day  General  Pierce 
was  elected  to  the  Presidency.  It  was  a  bright  and  delicious 
afternoon  in  late  autumn.  He  was  standing  under  the  little 
shaded  and  embowered  piazza  of  the  "  Wayside  "  at  Concord, 
in  the  full  vigor  of  his  manhood,  radiant  with  joy  at  the  good 
fortune  of  his  friend,  and  with  that  shy,  sad  smile  playing 
over  his  face,  which  was  so  touching  and  charming.  I  have 
seen  him  fishing  from  the  rocks  of  the  Essex  County  shore  at 
Swampscott,  enjoying  the  bliss  of  absolute  repose  and  the 
sweet  uncertainty  which  attends  the  angler's  line.  I  have  sat 
with  him  in  the  dimly-lighted  room  on  autumnal  evenings, 
cheerful  and  vocal  with  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  have  heard 
his  wise  and  sensible  talk,  uttered  in  that  soft,  melodious  tone 
which  gave  such  a  peculiar  charm  to  his  utterances — a  tone  so 
shy  that  an  intruder  would  hush  it  into  silence  in  an  instant. 
I  have  strolled  with  him  in  the  darkness  of  a  summer  night 
through  the  lanes  of  Concord,  assured  by  his  voice,  which 
came  up  from  the  grass-grown  roadside  in  a  sort  of  myste 
rious  murmur,  that  he  was  my  companion  still.  And  every 
where,  and  at  all  times,  he  bore  about  him  a  strong  and  com 
manding  presence,  an  impression  of  unpretending  power.  I 
can  hardly  tell  how  Hawthorne  succeeded  in  entertaining  his 
companions  and  securing, their  entire  confidence,  unless  it  was 
that  he  displayed  great  good  sense  and  acuteness  and  good 


262  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

temper  in  his  intercourse  with  them,  and  never  misled  them 
by  false  promises  or  low  appeals.  This,  in  addition  to  his. 
subtile  genius,  everywhere  recognized  and  never  wholly  con 
cealed  to  even  the  most  commonplace  associates,  made  him  a 
most  fascinating  friend,  as  he  was  really  and  truly  a  man  of 
rare  quality  among  ordinary  men. 

have  in  my  possession  the  following  letter,  written  by 
Hawthorne  to  an  old  friend,  who  bequeathed  it  to  me  on  his 
dying  bed,  which  illustrates  so  well  his  practical  view  of 
affairs,  his  just  estimate  of  the  civil  service,  and  his  exact 
appreciation  of  matters  about  him,  that  I  feel  I  should  not 
withhold  it  from  the  public  to  whom  his  words  now  belong.. 
It  is  dated  September  13,  1853,  twenty-four  years  ago  this. 
day  on  which  I  am  copying  it,  and  was  written  in  Liverpool 
shortly  after  he  entered  upon  his  duties  as  Consul  there,  to 
his  friend,  who  evidently  desired  a  position  under  him  : 

"DEAR  P — :  I  have  been  intending  to  write  to  you  this 
some  time,  but  wished  to  get  some  tolerably  clear  idea  of  the 
state  of  things  here  before  communicating  with  you.  I  find 
that  I  have  three  persons  in  my  office :  the  head  clerk,  or 
vice-consul,  at  £200,  the  second  clerk  at  ^150,  and  the 
messenger,  who  also  does  some  writing,  at  ^80.  They  are 
all  honest  and.  capable  men,  and  do  their  duty  to  perfection. 
No  American  would  take  either  of  these  places  for  twice  the 
sums  which  they  receive  ;  and  no  American  without  some 
months'  practice  would  undertake  the  duty.  Of  the  two  I 
would  rather  displace  the  vice-consul  than  the  second  clerk, 
who  does  a  great  amount  of  labor,  and  has  a  remarkable 
variety  of  talent ;  whereas  the  old  gentleman,  though  perfect 
in  his  own  track,  is  nothing  outside  of  it.  I  will  not  part 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  263 

with  either  of  these  men,  unless  compelled  to  do  so;    and  I 
don't  think  Secretary  Marcy  can  compel  me. 

"  Now  as  to  the  Manchester  branch :  it  brings  in  only 
about  £200.  There  is  no  consular  agent  there,  all  the  business 
being  transacted  here  in  Liverpool.  The  only  reason  for 
appointing  an  agent  would  be  that  it  might  shut  off  all 
attempts  to  get  a  separate  consulate  there.  There  is  no 
danger,  I  presume,  of  such  an  event  for  some  time  to  come  ; 
for  Pierce  made  a  direct  promise  that  the  place  should  be 
kept  open  for  my  benefit.  Nevertheless,  efforts  will  be  made 
to  fill  it,  and  v"ery  possibly  representations  may  be  made 
from  the  business  men  of  Manchester  that  there  is  a  necessity 
for  a  consul  there.  In  a  pecuniary  point  of  view  it  would 
make  very  little  difference  to  me  whether  the  place  Avere 
filled  by  an  independent  consul  or  by  a  vice-consul  of  my 
own  appointment ;  for  the  latter,  of  course,  would  not  be 
satisfied  with  less  than  the  whole  ^200.  What  I  should  like 
would  be  to  keep  the  place  vacant  and  receive  the  proceeds 
as  long  as  possible,  and,  at  last,  when  I  could  do  no  better,, 
to  give  the  office  to  you.  No  great  generosity  in  that,  to  be 
sure.  Thus  I  have  put  the  matter  fairly  before  you.  Do- 
you  tell  me  as  frankly  how  your  own  affairs  stand,  and 
whether  you  can  live  any  longer  in  that  cursed  old  Custom 
house  without  hanging  yourself.  Rather  than  that  you  should 
do  so,  I  would  let  you  have  the  place  to-morrow,  although 
it  would  pay  you  about  ;£ioo  less  than  your  present  office.  I 
suppose,  as  a  single  man,  you  might  live  within  your  income 
at  Manchester;  but  judging  from  my  own  experience  as  a 
married  man,  it  would  be  a  very  tight  fit.  With  all  the  econ 
omy  I  could  use  I  have  already  got  rid  of  $2,000  since  landing 
in  England.  Hereafter  I  hope  to  spend  less  and  save  more. 


264  .       PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  In  point  of  emolument,  my  offer  will  turn  out  about 
what  I  expected.  If  I  have  ordinary  luck  I  shall  bag  from 
'$5,000  to  $7,000  clear  per  annum  ;  but  to  effect  this  I  shall 
have  to  deny  myself  many  things  which  I  would  gladly  have. 
Colonel  Crittenden  told  me  that  it  cost  him  $4,000  to  live 
with  only  his  wife  at  a  boarding-house,  including  a  journey  to 
London  now  and  then.  I  am  determined  not  to  spend  more 
than  this  keeping  house  with  my  wife  and  children.  I  have 
hired  a  good  house,  furnished,  at £160,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river  Mersey,  at  Rock  Park,  where  there  is  good  air  and 
play-ground  for  the  children ;  and  I  come  over  to  the  city 
"by  steamboat  every  morning.  I  like  the  situation  all  the 
better  because  it  will  render  it  impossible  for  me  to  go  to 
parties,  or  to  give  parties  myself,  and  will  keep  me  out  of  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense. 

"  Liverpool  is  the  most  detestable  place  as  a  residence 
that  ever  my  lot  was  cast  in — smoky,  noisy,  dirty,  pesti 
lential,  and  the  Consulate  is  situated  in  the  most  detestable 
part  of  the  city.  The  streets  swarm  with  beggars  by  day 
and  by  night.  You  never  saw  the  like;  and  I  pray  that  you 
may  never  see  it  in  America.  It  is  worth  while  coming 
across  the  sea  in  order  to  feel  one's  heart  warm  towards  his 
own  country ;  and  I  feel  it  all  the  more  because  it  is  plain  to 
be  seen  that  a  great  many  of  the  Englishmen  whom  I  meet 
here  dislike  us,  whatever  they  may  pretend  to  the  contrary. 

"On  the  morning  when  I  left  America,  Mr.  W.  M. 
requested  me  to  give  him  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Pierce. 
I  promised  to  send  him  one,  and  accordingly  enclose  it. 
When  you  deliver  it,  I  enjoin  it  upon  you  to  talk  to  the  old 
man  like  a  father  to  his  son,  and  tell  him  the  absolute  absur 
dity  of  his  going  to  Washington  in  pursuit  of  office,  and  the 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  265. 

impossibility  of  his  obtaining  anything  through  a  personal 
interview  with  the  President.  I  expressed  all  this  to  him  in 
the  strongest  terms  at  the  time  when  he  asked  me  for  the 
letter.  It  did  no  good,  however  ;  neither  will  you  do  any  good 
by  your  remonstrances  ;  but  as  a  matter  of  conscience,  I  be 
seech  you  to  let  him  have  the  naked  truth. 

"  My  family  and  myself  have  suffered  very  much  from 
the  elements.  There  has  not  been  what  we  should  call  a 
fair  day  since  our  arrival,  nor  a  single  day  when  a  fire  would 
not  be  agreeable.  It  is  always  threatening  to  rain,  but  sel 
dom  rains  in  good  earnest.  It  never  does  rain,  and  it  never 
don't  rain  ;  but  you  are  pretty  sure  to  get  a  sprinkling  if  you 
go  out  without  an  umbrella.  I  long  for  one  of  our  sunny 
days,  and  one  of  our  good  hearty  rains.  Except  by  the  fire 
side  I  have  not  once  been  as  warm  as  I  should  like  to  be  ; 
but  the  Englishmen  call  it  a  sultry  day  whenever  the  ther 
mometer  rises  above  60°.  There  has  not  been  heat  enough 
in  England  this  season  to  ripen  an  apple. 

"  My  wife  and  the  children  often  talk  of  you.  Even  the 
baby  has  not  forgotten  you  ;  and  I  need  not  say  that  nothing 
would  give  us  so  much  pleasure  as  to  see  you  here.  It  must 
come  by  and  by. 

"  When  you  write  to  me  send  your  letter  to  the  care  of 
Ticknor  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  they  will  get  the  despatch  agent 
to  transmit  it  to  me  free  of  cost.  Write  often,  and  say  as 
much  as  you  can  about  yourself,  and  as  little  as  you  please 
about  A.,  N.,  B.,  and  all  the  rest  of  those  wretches,  of  whom 
my  soul  was  weary  to  death  before  I  made  my  escape. 
"Your  friend,  ever, 

"NATHL.    HAWTHORNE." 


266  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

And  now,  having  given  this  letter  of  a  matter-of-fact, 
sensible,  perhaps  a  little  hard,  certainly  manly  and  honest, 
government  officer,  to  an  official  and  practical  friend — the 
letter  of  a  commanding  and  sensible  man  to  another  man 
standing  on  the  earth  and  engaged  in  the  toil  of  life,  I  pre 
sent  the  other  side. 

It  is  the  supernatural  element  in  Hawthorne  which  has 
given  him  his  high  distinction.  When  he  entered  upon  his 
work  as  a  writer,  he  left  this  personality  which  I  have  just 
described  entirely  behind  him.  In  this  work,  he  allowed  no 
interference,  he  asked  for  no  aid.  He  was  shy  of  those  whose 
intellectual  power  and  literary  fame  might  seem  to  give  them 
a  right  to  enter  his  sanctuary.  In  an  assembly  of  illustrious 
authors  and  thinkers,  he  floated,  reserved  and  silent,  around 
the  margin  in  the  twilight  of  the  room,  and  at  last  vanished 
into  the  outer  darkness;  and  when  he  was  gone  Mr.  Emerson 
said  of  him  :  "  Hawthorne  rides  well  his  horse  of  the  night." 
The  working  of  his  mind  was  so  sacred  and  mysterious  to 
him  that  he  was  impatient  of  any  attempt  at  familiarity  or 
even  intimacy  with  the  divine  power  within  him.  His  love 
of  personal  solitude  was  a  ruling  passion,  his  intellectual  soli 
tude  was  an  overpowering  necessity.  Barry  Cornwall  says : 
41  A  spider,  my  dear,  the  meanest  thing  that  crawls,  or  lives, 
has  its  mate,  or  fellow  ;  but  a  scholar  has  no  mate  or  fellow  "  ; 
and  yet  the  isolation  of  the  scholar  is  mere  twilight  when 
compared  with  the  solitude  which  settles  around  the  great 
creative  genius.  Hawthorne  said  himself  that  his  work  grew 
in  his  brain  as  it  went  on,  and  was  beyond  his  control  or 
direction,  for  nature  was  his  guide.  And  so  in  great  loneli 
ness  he  toiled,  conscious  that  no  human  power  could  guide 
him,  and  that  human  sympathy  was  of  no  avail.  I  have  often 


NATHANIEL     HAWTHORNE.  267 

thought  that  he  understood  his  own  greatness  so  imperfectly, 
that  he  dared  not  expose  the  mystery  to  others,  and  that  the 
sacredness  of  his  genius  was  to  him  like  the  sacredness  of  his 
.love.  That  this  sentiment,  so  natural  and  admirable,  made 
him  somewhat  unjust  to  his  literary  associates,  there  can  be 
but  little  doubt.  For,  while  he  applied  to  them  the  powerful 
test  of  his  own  genius,  before  whose  blaze  many  of  them 
withered,  his  retiring  disposition  kept  him  at  a  distance 
almost  fatal  to  any  estimate  of  their  true  proportions.  And, 
even  when  he  admired  and  respected  the  authors  among 
whom  he  moved,  and  was  proud  of  the  companionship  into 
which  his  genius  had  elevated  him,  he  never  got  over  his 
natural  sensitiveness  with  regard  to  the  demand  they  might 
make  on  him  as  a  fellow-artist  to  open  his  creations  to  their 
vision,  and  with  regard  to  the  test  that  they  might  apply  to 
him.  For  his  sturdy  manhood  he  sought  intimates  and  com 
panions — not  many,  but  enough  to  satisfy  his  natural  longing 
for  a  fellow  ;  for  his  genius  he  neither  sought  nor  desired  nor 
-expected  to  find  companionship.  For  his  old  official  friend, 
he  had  a  tender  affection ;  for  the  strong  and  practical  young 
men  with  whom  he  had  set  forth  in  life,  he  had  an  abiding 
love  and  attachment ;  they  satisfied  the  longings  of  the 
weaker  side  of  his  existence.  For  the  throne  on  which  he  sat 
in  the  imperial  realm  of  his  own  creative  thought,  he  desired 
no  associate ;  his  seat  there  was  for  him  alone,  his  reign  there 
was  supreme.  And,  when  he  retired  to  that  lonely  room 
which  he  had  set  apart  at  the  height  of  the  tower  which 
overtopped  his  humble  abode  in  Concord,  and,  without  book 
or  picture,  alone  with  a  solitary  seat  and  desk,  having  none  to 
commune  with  except  nature  which  stood  before  his  windows 
to  cheer  his  heart,  entered  upon  his  work,  his  creation 


268  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

moved  steadily  and  majestically  on,  as  when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy. 

And  so,  when  Hawthorne  died,  the  world  felt  that  a  great 
light  had  gone  out,  and  a  most  brilliant  star  had  dropped 
from  the  firmament  of  the  heavens.  The  scholars  and  the 
men  of  genius  hastened  to  pay  tribute  to  his  greatness. 
Freed  at  last  from  associations  which  many  of  the  refined 
and  thoughtful  could  not  and  would  not  understand,  he  took 
in  an  instant  his  recognized  place  among  the  few  great 
masters  whom  God  had  sent  on  earth  to  teach  man  the  glory 
of  the  place  assigned  him  in  creation.  But  it  was  the  com 
panions  of  his  human  side,  who  mourned  for  him  as  for  a 
brother,  and  who  felt  that,  when  he  passed  away,  the  strong 
staff  of  their  lives  was  broken.  He  died  peacefully,  under  the 
affectionate  care  of  the  least  poetical  and  most  purely  practi 
cal  man  of  his  time,  and  found  with  him  his  natural  repose. 
It  was  the  scholars  and  poets,  however,  who  gathered  around 
his  grave  and  paid  a  tender  tribute  to  those  supernatural 
powers  which  they  could  not  approach  while  he  was  oa 
earth. 


IN  MEMORIAM-THOMAS  MOORE: 


•*  Poems  written  in  commemoration  of  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  the  poet. 


ENCHANTER  OF  ERIN. 

BY    OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

NCHANTER  of  Erin,  whose  magic  has  bound  us, 
Thy  wand  for  one  moment  we   fondly   would 

claim, 
!i>     Entranced    while    it    summons     the     phantoms 

around  us, 
That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of  thy  name. 

The  tell-tales  of  memory  wake  from  their  slumbers — 
I  hear  the  old  song  with  its  tender  refrain  ; 

What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey-voiced  numbers! 
What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  exquisite  strain ! 

The  home  of  my  childhood  comes  back  as  a  vision — 
Hark!  hark!  a  soft  chord  from  its  song-haunted  room; 

'Tis  a  morning  of  May,  when  the  air  is  Elysian; 
The  syringa  in  bud,  and  the  lilac  in  bloom. 

We  are  clustered  around  the  "  Clementi  "  piano — 

There  were  six  of  us  then,  there  are  two  of  us  now; 
She  is  singing — the  girl  with  the  silver  soprano — 

How  "  The  Lord  of  the  Valley"  was  false  to  his  vow: 

271 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 


"  Let  Erin  remember,"  the  echoes  are  calling; 

Through  the  "  Vale  of  Avoca  "  the  waters  are  rolled  ; 
The  "  Exile  "  laments  while  the  night-dews  are  falling, 
The  "  Morning  of  Life  "  dawns  again  as  of  old. 

But  ah!  those  warm  love-songs  of  fresh  adolescence, 
Around  us  such  raptures  celestial,  they  flung 

That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed  its  quintessence 
Through  the  seraph-toned  lips  of  the  maiden  that  sung. 

Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my  boyhood  enchanted, 
As  when  the  smooth  wave  by  the  angel  was  stirred, 

Yet  still  with  their  music  is  memory  haunted, 
And  oft  in  my  dreams  are  their  melodies  heard. 

I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  returning  ; 

The  crowd  that  was  kneeling  no  longer  is  there  ; 
The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  brands  are  still  burning, 

And  sandal  and  cinnamon  sweeten  the  air. 

The  veil  for  her  bridal  young  Summer  is  weaving 
In  her  azure-domed  hall  with  its  tapestried  floor, 

And  Spring,  the  last  tear-drops  of  May-dew  is  leaving 
On  the  daisy  of  Burns  and  the  Shamrock  of  Moore. 

How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them  together, 
The  song  of  the  minstrels  whose  record  we  scan  ; 

One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over  the  heather, 
One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  an  odalisque's  fan. 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  273 

Ah !  passion  can  glow  'mid  a  palace's  splendor ; 

The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of  the  bird, 
And  the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whispers  as  tender 

As  ever  the  blossoming  hawthorn  has  heard. 

No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered  Graces 

Should  fright  the  young  loves  from  their  warm  little  nest, 

For  the  heart  of  a  queen,  under  jewels  and  laces, 

Beats  time  with  the  pulse  in  the  peasant-girl's  breast. 

Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  Nature's  bestowing ! 

Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet  we  hold  ; 
Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flowing, 

The  shell  from  the  sea-side,  the  chalice  of  gold. 

The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had  listened  ; 

Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liberty's  shrine  ; 
For  Coila's  loved  minstrel  the  holly-wreath  glistened : 

For  Erin's,  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  entwine. 

And  while  the  fresh  blossoms  of  summer  are  braided 
For  the  sea-girdled,  stream-silvered,  lake-jewelled  isle, 

While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven  unfaded, 
While  Shannon  and  Liffey  shall  dimple  and  smile, 

The  land  where  the  staff  of  Saint  Patrick  was  planted, 
Where  the  shamrock  grows  green  from  the  cliffs  to  the 

shore, 
The  land  of  fair  maidens  and  heroes  undaunted, 

Shall    wreathe   her  bright   harp    with   the    garlands    of 
Moore. 


2/4  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

THOMAS  MOORE, 

May  29,  1879. 
BY   RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD. 

A  LORD  of  lyric  song  was  born 
A  hundred  years  ago  to-day — 

Lord  of  that  race  that  long  has  worn 
The  shamrock  for  the  bay  ! 

He  sung  of -wine  and  sung  of  flowers, 
Of  woman's  smile,  and  woman's  tear; 

Light  songs  that  suit  our  lighter  hours, 
But  oh  !  how  bright  and  dear. 

Who  will,  may  build  the  epic  verse, 
And,  Atlas-like,  its  weight  sustain  ; 

Or  solemn  tragedies,  rehearse 
In  high  heroic  strain  : 

So  be  it ;  but,  when  all  is  done, 
The  heart  demands  for  happy  days 

The  lyrics  of  Anacreon 
And  Sappho's  tender  lays. 

Soft  souls  with  these  are  satisfied ; 

He  loved  them,  but  exacted  more; 
For  this  the  lash  that  Horace  plied, 

The  sword  Harmodius  wore  ! 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  2/5 

Where  art  thou,  Brian,  and  thy  knights, 

So  dreaded  by  the  flying  Dane? 
And  thou,  Con  of  the  Hundred  Fights? 

Yo'ur  spirits  are  not  slain  ! 

Strike  for  us,  as  ye  did  of  yore  ; 

Be  with  us  ;  we  shall  conquer  still, 
Though  Irish  kings  are  crowned  no  more 

On  Tara's  holy  hill ! 

Perhaps  he  was  not  hero  born, 

Like  those  he  sung — Heaven  only  knows; 
He  had  the  rose  without  the  thorn, 

But  he  deserved  the  rose  ! 

For  underneath  its  odorous  light 

His  heart  was  warm,  his  soul  was  strong; 

He  kept  his  love  of  country  bright, 
And  sung  her  sweetest  song! 

Therefore,  her  sons  have  gathered  here 

To  honor  him  as  few  before, 
And  blazon  on  his  hundredth  year 

The  fame  of  Thomas  Moore  ! 


276  PAPYRUS       LEAVES. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  "  LALLA 
ROOKH." 

BY  J.    T.    TROWBRIDGE. 

WHEN  we  were  farm-boys,  years  ago, 

I  dare  not  tell  how  many, 
When,  strange  to  say,  the  fairest  day 

Was  often  dark  and  rainy ; 

No  work,  no  school,  no  weeds  to  pull, 

No  picking  up  potatoes, 
No  copy-page  to  fill  with  blots, 

With  little  o's  or  great  O's ; 

But  jokes  and  stories  in  the  barn 

Made  quiet  fun  and  frolic; 
Draughts,  fox-and  geese,  and  games  like  these, 

Quite  simple  and  bucolic ; 

Naught  else  to  do  but  just  to  braid 

A  lash,  or  sing  and  whittle, 
Or  go,  perhaps,  and  set  our  traps, 

If  it  "  held  up"  a  little; 

On  one  of  those  fine  days,  for  which 
We  boys  were  always  wishing — 

Too  wet  to  sow,  or  plant,  or  hoe, 
Just  right  to  go  a-fishing — 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  277 

I  found,  not  what  I  went  to  seek, 

In  the  old  farmhouse  gable, 
Nor  line,  nor  hook,  but  just  a  book 

That  lay  there  on  the  table 

Beside  my  sister's  candlestick 

(The  wick  burned  to  the  socket) — ; 
A  handy  book  to  take  to  bed, 

Or  carry  in  one's  pocket. 

I  tipped  the  dainty  cover  back, 

With  little  thought  of  rinding 
Anything  half  so  bright  within 

The  red  morocco  binding, 

And  let  by  chance  my  careless  glance 

Range  over  song  and  story  ; 
When  from  between  the  magic  leaves 

There  streamed  a  sudden  glory, 

As  from  a  store  of  sunlit  gems 

Pellucid  and  prismatic, 
That  edged  with  gleams  the  rough  old  beams, 

And  filled  the  raftered  attic. 

I  stopped  to  read  ;   I  took  no  heed 

Of  time  or  place,  or  whether 
The  window-pane  was  streaked  with  rain 

Or  bright  with  clearing  weather. 


278  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Of  chore-time  or  of  supper-time 
I  had  no  thought  or  feeling 

If  calves  were  bleating  to  be  fed, 
Or  hungry  pigs  were  squealing. 

The  tangled  web  of  tale  and  rhyme, 
Enraptured,  I  unravelled  ;' 

By  caravan,  through  Hindostan, 
Toward  gay  Cashmere  I  travelled. 

Before  the  gate  of  Paradise 
I  pleaded  with  the  Peri  ; 
And  even  of  queer  old  Fadladeen 
I  somehow  did  not  weary ; 

Until  a  voice  called  out  below  : 
"  Come,  boys  !  the  rain  is  over. 

It's  time  to  bring  the  cattle  home. 
The  lambs^are  in  the  clover." 

My  dream  took  flight ;  but,  day  or  night, 
It  came  again,  and  lingered. 

I  kept  the  treasure  in  my  coat, 
And  many  a  time  I  fingered 

Its  golden  leaves  among  the  sheaves 
In  the  long  harvest  nooning, 

Or  in  my  room  till  fell  the  gloom 
And  low  boughs  let  the  moon  in. 


J 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  279 

About  me  beamed  another  world, 

Refulgent,  oriental — 
Life  all  aglow  with  poetry, 

Or  sweetly  sentimental. 

My  hands  were  filled  with  common  tasks, 

My  head  with  rare  romances  ; 
My  old  straw  hat  was  bursting  out 

With  light  locks  and  bright  fancies. 

In  field  or  wood,  my  thoughts  threw  off 

The  old  prosaic  trammels  ; 
The  sheep  were  grazing  antelopes, 

The  cows  a  train  of  camels. 

Under  the  shady  apple-boughs 

The  book  was  my  companion  ; 
And  while  I  read  the  orchard  spread 

One  mighty  branching  banyan. 

To  mango-trees  or  almond-groves 

Were  changed  the  plums  and  quinces. 
/  was  the  poet,  Feramorz, 

And  had,  of  course,  my  Princess. 

The  well-curb  was  her  canopied, 

Rich  palanquin  ;   at  twilight 
'Twas  her  pavilion  overhead, 

And  not  my  garret  skylight. 


280  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Ah,  Lalla  Rookh  !     O  charmed  book  ! 

First  love,  in  manhood  slighted  ! 
To-day  we  rarely  turn  the  page 

In  which  our  youth  delighted. 

Moore  stands  upon  our  shelves  to-day, 

I  fear  a  trifle  du-sty  ; 
With  Scott,  beneath  a  cobweb  wreath, 

And  Byron,  somewhat  musty. 

But  though  his  orient  cloth-of-gold 

Is  hardly  now  the  fashion, 
His  tender  Melodies  will  live 

While  human  hearts  have  passion. 

The  centuries  roll ;  but  he  has  left, 

Beside  the  ceaseless  river, 
Some  flowers  of  rhyme  untouched  by  Time, 

And  songs  that  sing  for  ever. 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  281 

SHAMROCK  AND  LAUREL. 

BY    G.    P.    LATHROP. 

DECK  not  his  harp  with  the  bay, 

Nor  chant  him  too  formal  a  strain  ; 
But  garland  his  memory  with  shamrock  to-day, 

Grown  sweet  in  an  Irish  rain ! 

Lift  ye  the  wine  cup,  lift ! — 

The  cup  that  he  loved  without  sin  ; 
But  pause  ere  you  drain  it,  and  think  on  the  gift 

Of  his  song,  like  a  pearl,  dropp'd  therein. 

Then  smile  where  the  festival  glows ! 

If  remembrance  brings  tears,  let  them  be 
Those  tears  in  his  verse  (like  the  dew  on  the  rose) 

That  tremble  and  turn  to  glee. 

There  may  have  been  grander  men, 

And  patriot  minds  more  austere  ; 
But  a  nation's  music  drew  life  from  his  pen, — 

The  nation  whose  cause  he  held  dear. 

And  the  people  are  more  than  the  poet ! 

In  their  bosoms  they  cherish  his  song : 
He  may  gather  the  melody's  seed,  and  sow  it, 

But  their  hearts  its  bloom  shall  prolong. 

Honor  and  love,  then,  shall  crown 

The  singer  who  trusted  his  fame 
To  the  breath  of  the  people  and  now  looks  down 

On  an  echoing  world's  acclaim, 


282  PAPYRUS       LEAVES. 

THE  MEMORY  OF  MOORE, 

BY   JAMES   T.   FIELDS. 

PLEDGE  now  to  the  minstrel  whose  undying  numbers; 

Still  set  the  heart  bounding  wherever  they  rise — • 
The  laurel-crowned  singer,  whose  fame  never  slumbers 

Or  wanders  unknown  beneath  alien  skies. 

Can  we  ever  forget  them,  the  notes  so  enchanting, 
That  stole  on  our  senses  with  youth's  fairy  chimes ; 

Those  magical  sounds  all  our  after  years  haunting, 
That  echo  like  watch-words  from  happier  climes  ? 

Who  taught  us  that  music  and  song  were  both  given 
To  kindle  the  soul  to  love,  valor,  and  joy? 

Whose  melodies  charmed  us  like  strains  out  of  heaven, 
When  a  mother's  dear  voice  sang  them  first  to  her  boy.. 

Who  taught  us  to  welcome  that  swelling  emotion 
Which  soldiers  and  martyrs  and  patriots  feel — 

That  wave  which  rolls  on  like  the  floods  of  the  ocean 
When  despots  are  forging  their  fetters  of  steel  ? 

Who  taught  us  that  chains  for  the  mind  are  unholy — 
That  speech  should  be  safe  as  wild  birds  on  the  wing? 

Who  strove  to  uplift  from  their  bondage  the  lowly, 
And  ope  the  dumb  lips  that  were  longing  to  sing? 

Let  freedom  unroll  her  bright  flag,  for  beneath  it, 

Proudly  smiling,  she  points  to  her  bard's  cherished  name. 

Oh  !  garland  his  tomb,  let  the  shamrock  enwreathe  it, 
And  Erin  for  ever  exult  in  his  fame. 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  283 

While  we  gather  the  leaf  of  three, 

And  pledge  him  with  song  and  with  wine 

In  a  mood  as  gay  as  his  own  could  be 
Were  his  face  on  our  revels  to  shine. 


THOMAS  MOORE -MAY  28,  1779-1879. 

BY    MRS.    JULIA   C.    R.    DORR. 

HUSH  !  O  be  ye  silent,  all  ye  birds  of  May  ! 
Cease  the  high,  clear  trilling  of  your  roundelay ! 
Be  the  merry  minstrels  mute  in  vale,  on  hill, 
And  in  every  tree-top  let  the  song  be  still  ! 

O  ye  winds,  breathe  softly !     Let  your  voices  die 
In  a  low,  faint  whisper,  sweet  as  love's  first  sigh; 
O  ye  zephyrs,  blowing  over  beds  of  flowers, 
Be  ye  still  as  dews  are  in  the  starry  hours ! 

O  ye  laughing  waters,  leaping  here  and  there, 
Filling  with  sweet  clamor  all  the  summer  air, 
Can  ye  not  be  quiet?     Hush,  ye  mountain  streams. 
Dancing  to  glad  music  from  the  world  of  dreams ! 

And  thou,  mighty  ocean,  beating  on  the  shore, 
Bid  thy  angry  billows  stay  their  thunderous  roar! 
O  ye  waves,  lapse  softly  in  such  slumberous  calm 
As  ye  know  when  circling  isles  of  crested  palm ! 

Bells  in  tower  and  steeple,  be  ye  mute  to-day 
As  the  bell-flowers  rocking  in  the  winds  of  May  ! 
Cease  awhile,  ye  minstrels,  though  your  notes  be  clear 
As  the  strains  that  soar  in  heaven's  high  atmosphere  ! 


284  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Earth,  bid  all  thy  children  hearken,  for  a  voice, 
Sweeter  than  a  seraph's,  bids  their  hearts  rejoice  ; 
Floating  down  the  silence  of  a  hundred  years, 
Lo  !  its  deathless  music  thrills  our  listening  ears  ! 

'Tis  the  one  our  fathers  loved  so  long  ago, 
The  same  songs  it  taught  them  warbling  clear  and  low  ; 
"  Hark,  ye  disconsolate  !  "  while  the  voice  so  pure 
Sings — "  Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  heaven  cannot  cure  !  " 

Sings  of  love's  wild  rapture  triumphing  o'er  pain, 
Glorying  in  giving,  counting  loss  but  gain; 
Sings  the  warrior's  passion  and  the  patriot's  pride, 
And  the  brave,  unshrinking,  who  for  glory  died  ; 

Sings  of  Erin  smiling,  through  a  mist  of  tears, 
Of  her  patient  waiting  all  the  weary  years  ; 
Sings  the  pain  of  parting,  and  the  joy  divine, 
When  the  bliss  of  meeting  stirs  the  heart  like  wine  ; 

Sings  of  memories  waking  in  "  the  stilly  night  "  ; 
Of  the  "young  dreams"  fading  in  the  morning  light ; 
Of  the  "rose  of  summer"  perishing  too  soon, 
Of  the  early  splendors  waning  ere  the  noon  ! 

O  thou  tender  singer!     All  the  air  to-day 
Trembles  with  the  burden  of  thy  "  farewell  "  lay  ; 
Crowns  and  thrones  may  crumble,  into  darkness  hurled, 
Yet  is  song  immortal;  song  shall  rule  the  world  ! 

"  THE  MAPLES,"  May  22,  1879. 


MY  FRIEND  MOSES. 


MY  FRIEND  MOSES. 


BY  JOHN   HABBERTON. 

i^HILE  the  late  civil  war  was  in  progress  I 
unwillingly  gained  an  acquaintance  who 
finally  became  my  dearest  friend,  and  from 
whom  I  parted  with  a  regret  which  I  can 
not  hope  to  outlive.  His  position  was 
far  too  lowly  for  his  deserts,  yet  he 
seemed  always  to  be  loyally  content 
therewith.  Although  a  tried  and  approved  hero,  Congress 
never  tendered  him  a  vote  of  thanks,  nor  was  he  ever 
the  recipient  of  a  dress-sword,  a  gold-mounted  revolver,  or  a 
handsome  set  of  accoutrements  from  his  native  town  or  State. 
It  was  perhaps  as  well  for  all  concerned  that  my  friend 
Moses  had  not  been  offered  any  of  these  evidences  of  the 
occasional  fallacy  of  the*.rule  regarding  the  ingratitude  of 
republics,  for  so  complete  was  his  satisfaction  with  his  cus 
tomary  surroundings  that  he  would  have  regarded  any  con 
ventional  testimonial  with  good-natured  wonder  not  unmixed 
with  contempt.  The  privilege  to  act,  and  the  consciousness 
of  brave  deeds  dared  and  arduous  toils  accomplished,  were  to- 
Moses  the  fulness  of  reward  for  all  his  successes.  To  camp 
vices  he  was  an  utter  stranger ;  he  never  gambled,  swore,  drank, 
or  used  tobacco  in  any  form.  About  property  rights  his  mind 

was  not  always  clear,  but  even  here  his  transgressions  were 

287 


288  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

dictated  by  the  purest  sentiment  of  self-preservation  ;  he 
appropriated  the  property  of  others  only  so  far  as  was  neces 
sary  to  the  maintenance  of  life  ;  and  what  in  his  individual 
case  was  called  theft  was  that  operation  which,  when  per 
formed  by  a  collective  military  body,  was  known  as  the  justi 
fiable  act  of  "  foraging." 

Loyal,  intelligent,  honest,  industrious,  enduring,  handsome, 
and  brave,  there  was  yet  one  fatal  bar  to  the  promotion  of 
Moses — he  was  a  horse.  Rumor  hath  it  that  members  of  a 
family  closely  allied  to  that  of  Moses,  but  exhibiting  more 
generosity  of  ear,  have  been  found  within  the  uniforms  of 
brigadiers,  and  even  under  the  stars  of  major-generals;  but 
the  shortness  and  delicacy  of  Moses's  organs  of  hearing  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  hope  for  promotion  through  family 
influence.  His  nearest  approach  to  preferment  occurred  when 
I,  his  temporary  owner,  added  one  stripe  to  the  two  which 
were  already  on  my  sleeve,  and  became,  by  virtue  of  my  posi 
tion  as  sergeant,  the  commander  of  a  platoon  of  cavalry,  with 
the  right  to  ride  upon  the  flank  of  the  column.  Moses 
seemed  to  grow  a  hand  in  stature  when  he  realized  that  he 
was  not  thereafter  to  have  his  dainty  nose  switched  by  the 
tail  of  a  file-leader,  or  his  tender  feet  trodden  on  by  a  clumsy 
follower. 

Like  many  others  of  the  blessings  I  have  enjoyed,  Moses 
came  not  only  unsought,  but  against  my  will.  When  the 
company  to  which  I  belonged  had  been  in  service  a  scant 
month,  and  before  it  possessed  a  horse  or  a  fire-arm,  the  regi 
ment  was  ordered  out  as  a  scouting  party,  and  a  hurried 
issue  of  horses  and  arms  was  made.  As  at  this  time  the  war 
had  lasted  but  a  year  and  a  half,  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
no  ammunition  could  be  had  for  the  revolvers.  The  quarter- 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES.  289 

master  had  plenty  of  carbine  cartridges,  however,  and  the 
only  three  members  of  the  company  who  had  ever  used  loose 
ammunition  in  revolvers  were  detailed  to  break  up  the  cart 
ridges,  remould  the  bullets,  and  charge  the  hundred  pistols. 
I  was  one  of  the  three.  Between  reluctant  machinery  in  the 
weapons,  and  the  trimming  of  some  bullets  which  a  warped 
mould  left  misshapen,  the  task  lasted  from  the  tattoo  of  one 
night  until  an  hour  or  two  after  the  reveille  of  the  following 
morning.  When,  with  aching  eyes,  I  sought  the  stables,  the 
wonders  oi'  which  I  had  heard  of  so  many  times  since  the 
company  had  been  aroused,  the  stable-orderly  led  me  to  a 
stall,  pointed  to  its  occupant,  and  remarked,  "  That's  your 
hoss." 

The  animal,  an  angular,  sorry-looking  beast,  laid  his  ears 
upon  his  neck  and  shot  forth  his  heels,  perhaps  by  way  of 
introduction. 

"  I  won't  ride  such  a  brute  !  "  I  roared,  retreating  upon 
the  orderly's  feet  in  my  anxiety  to  escape  the  animal's  flying 
hoofs. 

"Won't,  eh  ?"  snarled  the  official,  mumbling  over  some 
dreadful  oaths  as  he  squeezed  his  bruised  toes.  "  Then 
you'll  have  to  walk,  I  guess,  for  he's  the  last  hoss  of  the  lot — 
all  the  rest  is  give  out." 

I  had  already  been  a  soldier  long  enough  to  recognize  at 
sight  the  inevitable  ;  but  the  longer  I  gazed  at  my  charger 
the  more  dismally  my  spirits  drooped.  I  had  long  thought 
that  the  most  desirable  approach  to  danger  would  be  to  have 
a  horse  shot  under  me  ;  the  contemplation  of  this  particular 
animal  confirmed  me  in  my  impression,  and  caused  me  to 
hope  for  a  speedy  realization  of  my  pet  dream  of  glory.  But 
contemplation  was  out  of  order  at  seven  o'clock  of  a  morning 


2QO  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

on  which  "boots  and  saddles"  was  to  sound  at  7.30;  so  I 
hastily  attempted  to  become  acquainted  with  my  horse.  The 
stables  were  open  at  the  rear,  but  closed  in  front,  and  roofed 
with  loose  pine  poles  upon  which  brushwood  had  been 
thrown.  Attempting  to  enter  the  stall,  I  was  warned  by 
the  occupant's  cars  to  desist,  and  my  ejaculation  in  imperious 
tones  of  ''Whoa,  sir!  stand  over!"  was  treated  with  silent 
contempt.  There  was  but  one  hope  left  ;  so,  followed  by  the 
jeers  of  the  orderly,  I  climbed  the  frame  of  the  stables,  and 
let  myself  down  through  the  roof.  Compelled  at  last  to 
grant  me  an  interview,  my  new  acquisition  noticed  that  I  held 
in  one  hand  a  piece  of  an  army  biscuit,  upon  which  I  had 
been  breakfasting.  This  he  sniffed  at  and  appropriated,  as 
suming  slowly  the  eye  of  a  gratified  connoisseur.  I  imme 
diately  extracted  another  biscuit  from  my  pocket,  and  pre 
sented  it,  a  morsel  at  a  time,  following  up  as  rapidly  as 
possible  the  impression  I  had  made.  I  stroked  his  nose, 
patted  his  withers,  rubbed  down  his  legs,  and  smoothed  his 
flanks.  When,  finally,  I  gently  scratched  the  underpart  of 
his  jaw  (a  service  which  no  horse  can  perform  for  himself)  he 
expressed  his  confidence  by  rubbing  his  nose  on  the  breast 
of  my  jacket,  and  we  parted,  temporarily,  with  assurances  of 
mutual  understanding. 

When,  however,  "  boots  and  saddles  "  finally  sounded,  and 
I  led  my  charger,  duly  caparisoned,  to  the  company  street,  he 
hinted  pretty  strongly  his  disapprobation  of  the  whole  pro 
ceeding.  "  Prepare  to  mount — mount !  "  shouted  the  cap 
tain.  The  instant  I  gained  the  saddle  my  horse  shot  from 
the  line,  galloped  to  the  stables,  and  dashed  into  his  stall,  his 
master  dropping  over  the  animal's  neck  just  in  time  to  escape 
impalement  on  the  poles  which  constituted  the  low-hanging 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES.  29! 

eaves.  Tightening  his  curb-chain,  I  again  led  the  animal 
toward  his  company  line,  mounted  him,  and  tried  to  ride  into 
my  place.  But  the  noble  steed  preferred  to  select  his  society 
for  himself.  On  the  general  parade-ground  a  group  of 
mounted  officers  sat  chatting,  and  towards  these  my  horse 
moved  sidewise,  in  spite  of  bit  and  spur.  Edging  his  way 
into  the  group,  he  manifested  his  satisfaction  by  a  series  of 
vigorous  kicks.  Numerous,  and  of  scriptural  derivation,  were 
the  remarks  which  these  operations  called  forth,  as  by  merci 
less  spurring  I  urged  the  brute  back  to  his  own  troop. 
Reaching  the  troop,  he  moved  along  its  rear,  kicking  without 
intermission,  and  finally  took  position  on  the  extreme  left, 
where  the  captain  was  glad  to  leave  him. 

During  our  first  expedition  a  Trinity  (Dublin)  man  called 
my  attention  to  the  brands  on  my  horse's  shoulder.  Above 
the  U.  S.,  which  each  army  horse  displayed,  was  the  letter  of 
my  own  troop,  M  ;  beneath  the  Government  brand,  and  not 
so  distinct,  was  the  letter  A,  which  had  been  bestowed  in 
earlier  days.  "  M — U — S — A,"  quoth  my  Irish  friend, 
"that's  the  Greek  for  Moses."  A  bad  pun  or  two  came 
from  listeners,  one  to  the  effect  that  Moses  was  a  profit — to 
the  man  who  sold  him — and  that  he  seemed  at  home  in 
rushes,  such  as  that  which  he  had  made  on  the  stables  ;  then 
the  troop  decided,  with  my  consent,  that  Moses  was  to  be  my 
horse's  name. 

From  that  day  to  the  sad  one  which  witnessed  his  un 
timely  taking-off,  Moses  never  failed  to  create  entertainment 
and  demand  admiration.  Under  good  treatment,  and  with 
the  assistance  of  more  oats  than  he  was  legally  entitled  to, 
his  form  soon  lost  all  lines  but  such  as  were  graceful.  When 
occasion  presented,  he  proved  himself  the  fastest  horse  in  the 


292  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

regiment.  His  watchful  eye  took  in  all  details  of  camp  and 
road,  while  his  sleepless  heels  commanded  the  respect  of  his 
comrades.  So  skilled  was  he  in  the  use  of  these  natural 
weapons  that  when  a  contraband  gravely  suggested  that 
Moses's  early  education  had  been  superintended  by  a  mule, 
the  troop  unhesitatingly  accepted  the  theory.  So  gleefully 
and  neatly  were  his  kicks  delivered,  so  regardless  was  Moses 
of  the  object  which  they  might  strike,  that  my  comrades,  ex 
cepting  only  those  who  had  been  kicked,  regarded  Moses's 
efforts  with  that  admiration  which  Englishmen  are  wont  to 
accord  to  skilful  boxers.  On  our  first  battalion  drill,  as  we 
wheeled  from  column  of  platoons  into  line,  the  successful 
completion  of  the  movement  was  hailed  by  Moses  with  a 
joyous  kick,  which  broke  the  leg  of  the  sergeant  upon  the 
flank  of  the  platoon  at  my  right ;  the  sergeant,  who  was  an 
old  soldier,  remained  in  hospital  a  year  and  a  half  with  his 
fracture  and  its  sequences,  but  upon  his  return  to  duty  he 
never  spoke  reproachfully  to  or  of  Moses.  It  mattered  not 
whose  horse  happened  to  be  tied  near  him  when  the  column 
halted  temporarily  ;  he  injured  a  general's  horse  once,  because 
of  a  trifling  disagreement  about  some  oats  belonging  right 
fully  to  the  latter,  and  when,  one  lovely  evening,  the  chaplain 
tied  his  horse  near  mine  and  retired  to  the  forest  and  his. 
devotions,  the  holy  man's  charger  was  so  effectually  lamed 
that  his  owner  completed  the  expedition  on  the  caisson  of  a 
mountain  ho-vitzer.  During  short  halts,  general  and  staff 
officers,  looking  along  a  well-occupied  rail  fence  for  a  tying 
place,  were  often  attracted  by  the  vacant  space  which  mem 
bers  of  my  own  troop  had  learned  to  leave  on  each  side  of 
Moses.  Then  it  was  that  the  weariest  patriot  in  the  regi 
ment  would  cheerfully  raise  his  head  in  anticipation  of  the 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES.  293 

excitement  which  was  sure  to  follow,  and  men. who  lived  not 
for  themselves  alone  would  steal  silently  among  the  unwary, 
rousing  every  one  who  slept,  knowing  well  that  the  smother 
ed  curse  would  be  mentally  retracted  the  instant  the  sleeper 
learned  why  he  had  been  awakened. 

Moses  was  a  consistent  materialist.  Of  any  source  of 
strength,  other  than  that  whose  organic  basis  was  in  his  own 
stomach  he  had  no  conception  ;  his  operations  in  provisions 
were  therefore  as  guileless  as  the  unlawful  acts  of  a  pagan. 
This  concession  was  not  always  made  as  cheerfully  as  it 
should  have  been  by  those  whom  Moses  despoiled  of  their 
property.  He  would  quietly  gnaw  a  hole  in  the  grain-bag 
upon  the  saddle  of  some  horse  near  him,  and  do  it  with 
such  intelligence  that  only  such  oats  as  he  himself  removed 
would  be  lost.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  way  of  a 
:haversack ;  could  he  find  one  of  these  carry-alls  at  a  saddle 
bow  or  upon  a  tree,  he  would  open  it  with  his  teeth,  and  ex 
tract  such  vegetable  diet  as  it  contained,  not  excepting  coffee 
•and  sugar.  The  familiarity  born  of  true  friendship  was  the 
apparent  cause  of  my  being  occasionally  relieved  of  three 
days'  rations  by  Moses,  who  would  deftly  examine  my  haver 
sack  as  I  stood  before  him  in  that  obliviousness  which  comes 
•of  interested  conversation.  Occasionally  I  wounded  his  feel 
ings  by  rebuking  him  for  his  thoughtlessness,  but  when  one 
•day,  Moses,  with  penitent  countenance,  offered  back  to  me, 
with  his  teeth,  the  much-chewed  bag  which  had  held  my 
coffee  and  sugar,  I  vowed  that  I  would  thereafter  forestall  by 
watchfulness  the  necessity  for  reproof. 

Like  most  beings  who  are  successful  in  appropriating  the 
property  of  others,  Moses  was  grandly  generous  when  occa 
sion  demanded.  In  a  large  cavalry  camp,  permanently  lo- 


294  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

cated,  there  are  generally  a  few  horses  which  are  hopelessly 
worthless,  and  only  await  the  formality  of  survey  to  gain 
admittance  to  the  eternal  shades  by  the  way  carefully  marked 
out  in  the  Army  Regulations.  These  poor  animals  are  fre 
quently  turned  loose,  and  compelled  to  find  material  for  their 
own  sustenance,  while  the  rations  drawn  for  them  are  distri 
buted  among  serviceable  horses.  On  a  cold  winter  morning, 
one  of  these  poor  veterans  who  had  been  denied  admissioa 
everywhere  else  timidly  approached  Moses's  stall.  The  alert 
ears  pointed  warningly,  and  an  uplifting  of  the  terrible  heels 
seemed  imminent,  when  Moses,  who  had  looked  around  at 
the  intruder,  suddenly  forbore  all  hostile  demonstrations ;  he 
signified  his  sympathy,  in  some  manner  known  only  to  horses, 
so  promptly  and  unmistakably  that  a  moment  later  the  way 
farer  was  eating  the  oats  which  I  had  shortly  before  deposited 
for  Moses,  while  the  benefactor,  first  passing  his  nose  gently 
along  the  stranger's  neck,  licked  his  shoulder,  which  was  as 
near  an  approach  to  the  human  pat  on  the  back  as  could  be 
expected  of  a  horse.  Never  before  or  afterward  did  I  detect 
Moses  in  the  act  of  going  hungry  for  sweet  charity's  sake, 
but  in  subsequent  days  I  never  ceased  to  suspect  him  of 
gentle  deeds,  and  I  scorned  to  discuss  the  question  with  that 
wretched  clique  of  philosophers  who  demanded  proof  in  sup 
port  of  every  moral  theory. 

When  I  was  upon  the  back  of  Moses  I  could  easily  divine 
the  origin  of  the  myth  of  the  centaur.  My  own  sentiment 
seemed  always  to  communicate  itself  to  my  horse  ;  after  we 
had  passed  the  first  week  of  our  acquaintanceship,  I  was 
never  conscious  of  any  effort  to  impart  my  will  to  Moses.  So 
long  as  my  hand  touched  the  bridle-rein,  he  knew  my  every 
mood,  and  even  when  the  rein  dropped  he  would  not  mani- 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES.  295 

fest  serious  doubt.  Never  was  I  startled  but  Moses's  great 
heart  began  to  thump  violently  under  the  saddle,  the  distur 
bance  quieting  only  when  my  own  mind  became  reassured. 
In  like  manner,  Moses's  feelings  were  quickly  impressed  upon 
his  rider.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  feel  despondent  when 
Moses  was  cheerful ;  good  spirits  always  increased  his  dignity 
and  grace,  so  that  even  out  of  shame  I  would  reform  my  own 
spirits  until  they  corresponded  with  his.  Occasionally  he 
would  discover  the  superiority  of  his  own  intelligence,  and 
then,  instead  of  displaying  the  arrogance  which  is  natural  to 
beings  of  low  birth  and  defective  breeding,  he  would  be 
simply  firm  and  insist  upon  his  supremacy.  On  the  darkest 
night  I  ever  knew  my  regiment  was  in  a  strange  neighbor 
hood  in  Virginia,  endeavoring  to  effect  a  surprise,  but  neither 
duty  nor  danger  deterred  me  from  dropping  asleep  in  my 
saddle.  I  must  have  guided  Moses  unconsciously  out  of  the 
road  and  halted  him,  for  when  I  awoke  everything  about  us 
was  still.  Our  situation  was  unenviable,  for  before  I  had 
fallen  asleep  we  were  nearer  Richmond  than  our  own  camp 
(at  Williamsburg).  Trying  to  find  the  road,  an-  occasional 
encounter  between  a  tree  and  one  of  my  knees  showed  me 
that  we  were  in  a  forest,  and  the  evidence  became  cumulative 
too  rapidly  to  let  me  imagine  that  1  had  succeeded.  At 
length  I  dropped  the  rein,  despairing  of  finding  the  road 
before  day-break,  but  no  sooner  had  I  abandoned  the  search 
than  Moses  took  command  ;  he  threaded  his  way  among  the 
trees,  found  the  road  (which  was  excellent),  and  at  once  took 
a  gait  which  I  knew  without  ocular  demonstration  to  be 
unusual.  So  much  time  was  consumed  on  this  solitary  ride 
that  I  determined  that  Moses  must  be  returning  to  camp, 
and  I  endeavored  to  check  his  speed,  lest  I  might  alarm  the 


296  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

pickets  and  be  favored  with  a  shot  for  not  having  the  coun 
tersign.  But  for  once  Moses  was  refractory;  lie  rightly 
objected  to  divided  responsibility  in  a  case  where  it  was  evi 
dent  that  all  the  positive  convictions  were  on  one  side. 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  a  trial  by  court-martial  for  abandon 
ment  of  duty  while  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  were  suddenly 
arrested  by  a  cry  of  "  Halt !  Who  comes  there?"  I  pulled 
desperately  at  the  bridle  and  shouted  "  Friend  !  "  but  Moses 
for  the  first  time  in  our  mutual  career  disregarded  a  summons 
which  he  understood  as  well  as  I  did  ;  he  dashed  furiously 
along,  and  I  heard  a  familiar  voice  exclaiming,  "  Look  out, 
boys  !  It's  H —  on  that  infernal  kickin'  plug  of  his  !"  Then 
I  knew  we  were  passing  our  own  rear-guard  ;  a  moment  later, 
though  I  could  not  discern  even  a  shadow,  the  jubilant  kicks 
which  Moses  launched,  and  the  vigorous  oaths  which  they 
elicited,  showed  me  that  I  was  again  in  my  rightful  position 
on  the  flank  of  iny  own  troop. 

On  another  occasion,  Moses  displayed  his  intelligence  in  a 
manner  more  nearly  human.  He  and  I  had  been  sent  from 
the  front  to  a  post  twenty  miles  away,  to  pilot  an  infantry 
regiment  to  the  general  rendezvous  ;  we  had,  therefore, 
endured  forty  miles  of  extra  duty  between  dusk  and  day 
light.  Utterly  exhausted,  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground  in 
an  old  corn-fie-ld  where  my  company  was  in  bivouac,  and  with 
Moses's  bridle  over  my  arm,  and  a  corn-hill  for  a  pillow,  I 
dropped  asleep.  I  was  finally  aroused  by  some  one  raising 
my  feet  alternately  and  then  dropping  them.  My  capabilities 
as  a  sound  sleeper  had  made  me  the  subject  of  many  a  similar 
trick,  but  that  any  one  could  mistreat  me  on  this  particular 
morning  seemed  maliciously  cruel.  Feigning  sleep,  I  slowly 
moved  my  hands  over  the  ground  in  search  of  a  clod  with 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES.  297 

which  to  punish  my  tormentor;  finding  this,  I  sprang  up 
hastily,  to  find  that  Moses  was  the  offender,  and  that  he  was 
about  to  repeat  the  operation.  An  alarm  had  been  sounded, 
the  company  was  mounted  and  ready  to  go  into  action,  and 
Moses  had  taken  upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  waking 
me,  the  whole  troop  smiling  approval  and  greeting  his  success 
with  three  hearty  cheers,  to  which  he  responded  by  some 
veritable  horse-play. 

Like  all  other  beings  of  fine  organization,  Moses  held 
death  in  utter  horror.  His  first  encounter  with  the  destroyer 
nearly  deprived  him  of  my  companionship,  for  at  the  sight  of 
a  dead  horse  he  shied  so  violently  that  I  nearly  lost  my  seat. 
Then  he  approached  the  body  ;  wistfully  and  wonderingly  he 
looked  it  over  with  solemn  earnestness,  and  then  he  turned 
his  head  and  looked  enquiringly  at  me,  his  great  eyes  taking 
a  deep  violet  hue,  and  seeming  to  melt.  I  did  all  that  I 
could  to  comfort  him,  but  that  which  was  a  mystery  to  me  I 
could  not  hope  to  explain  to  Moses,  so  for  the  remainder  of 
the  day  he  was  subdued  and  pensive  of  mien. 

I  was  one  of  three  men  who  alone,  out  of  the  hundred  re 
cruited  for  my  company,  were  politically  in  sympathy  with 
the  party  in  power  ;  when,  therefore,  in  the  autumn  of  1863, 
the  Government  began  to  raise  colored  troops  and  officer 
them  from  the  rank  and  file  of  the  volunteers,  my  compa 
triots  were  untiring  in  their  suggestions  that  I  should  join 
myself  to  individuals  who,  by  half  of  my  company,  were 
styled  my  "  dharlin'  naygurs."  I  was  "  passed  "  by  the  Ex 
amining  Board  which  sat  in  Washington,  but  when  I  learned 
that  no  cavalry  appointments  were  to  be  made,  my  heart 
sank  within  me.  For  what  was  to  become  of  Moses?  I  had 
longed  for  a  cavalry  appointment,  in  which  case  I  hoped, 


298  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

with  the  connivance  of  my  old  captain,  to  convey  Moses  to 
the  department  quartermaster,  from  whom  I  might  purchase 
him  at  the  Government  valuation.  Hope  came  from  an  un 
expected  source,  however  ;  the  department  commander,  who 
was  a  favorite  of  the  Administration,  was  organizing  cavalry 
regiments  from  the  contrabands  within  his*line,  and  he  offered 
me  an  appointment.  With  this  in  my  pocket,  in  the  same 
envelope  with  an  order  from  Mr.  Stanton  to  report  for  duty 
to  the  commandant  of  an  infantry  regiment  organizing  in 
New  York,  I  set  out  one  morning  for  department  headqu^r- 
ters,  forty  miles  away.  During  a  preliminary  ride  of  ten 
miles,  on  the  back  of  Moses,  my  mind  was  so  distressed  by 
conflicting  emotions  that  I  had  no  heart  for  rejoicing  over  the 
certainty  of  promotion  from  the  ranks.  For  a  cavalry  ser 
geant  to  accept  any  infantry  position  which  would  compel 
him  to  march  on  foot  seemed  wilful  degradation ;  on  the 
other  hand,  my  family  was  in  New  York,  and  not  even  the 
pride  of  a  trooper  could  stifle  natural  affection.  I  finally 
grew  reasonably  cheerful,  under  the  hope  that,  on  reporting 
for  duty  at  department  headquarters,  an  earnest  appeal  might 
secure  me  a  short  furlough,  in  which  case  I  could  visit  my 
family,  roll  my  infantry  appointment  into  cigar-lighters,  and 
hurry  back  to  Moses  and  duty.  I  did  not  communicate  my 
plans;  even  could  I  have  been  sure  of  making  him  under 
stand  them,  I  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  jealousy  which 
might  be  his  when  he  learned  that  he  was  not  alone  in  my 
regard,  and  I  dreaded  to  wound  his  pride  by  the  suggestion 
that  he  could  be  bought  at  the  price  of  an  ordinary  horse. 
But  Moses  seemed  instinctively  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  the 
whole  matter;  he  exercised  that  prophetic  faculty  which  is 
peculiar  to  beings  of  exalted  ideals  and  pure  lives.  Many 


MY     FRIEND      MOSES.  299 

times,  in  the  course  of  this  short  ride,  he  turned  his  head  sud 
denly  to  look  at  me  ;  when,  finally,  I  dismounted,  and,  deter 
mined  not  even  to  imagine  a  final  good-by,  spoke  cheerily  to 
him  as  I  handed  his  halter  to  the  man  who  was  to  lead  him 
back  to  camp,  Moses  cast  upon  me  a  look  of  sorrow  not  e'n- 
tirely  unmixed  with  reproach.  This  was  too  much.  I  threw 
my  arms  about  his  neck,  <3rew  his  head  down,  and  told  him 
the  whole  story.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  somewhat  to 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  my  devotion,  but  at  length  he  rubbed 
his  nose  in  my  bosom,  and  I  felt  that  confidence  between  us 
was  fully  restored.  To  be  prepared  against  the  worst,  I  took 
-a  generous  strand  from  his  wavy  mane  and  hid  it  in  my 
breast-pocket,  offering  in  return  a  piece  of  bread,  which  I 
rejoiced  to  think  would  become  a  part  of  Moses's  very  life. 
He  intently  watched  my  embarkation  by  steamer,  and  as  the 
boat  left  her  pier  and  I  hurried  aft  and  shouted  "  Good-by, 
Mose  ! "  the  faithful  fellow  stopped  suddenly  on  his  home 
ward  journey,  and  took  that  observing  pose  which  is  above 
all  others  intelligent.  I  never  doubted  that  his  eyes  discov 
ered  the  friend  for  whom  they  were  seeking,  for  the  royal 
switch  which  he  gave  with  his  tail  was  not  prompted  by  any 
external  irritation. 

At  department  headquarters  I  learned  that  the  command 
ant  was  absent,  and  the  New  York  steamer  was  just  ready  to 
depart ;  then  it  was  that  the  fates  strove  successfully  for  my 
relatives  and  against  Moses.  When  it  became  known  in  my 
old  camp  that  the  rider  of  Moses  had  departed,  nine  out  of 
ten  of  the  regimental  officers  and  privates  wanted  the  horse ; 
my  captain,  however,  who  was  the  sole  legal  arbiter  of 
Moses's  fate,  was  a  gentleman,  and  therefore  able  to  sympa 
thize  with  a  bereaved  horse!  He  consulted  me  and  complied 


300  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

with  my  desire  that  my  special  two-footed  friend  should 
thereafter  act  as  chief  companion  to  Moses ;  as  this  soldier 
had  long  been  Moses's  faithful  admirer,  without  ever  mani 
festing  a  single  sign  of  selfishness  in  his  feelings,  and  had  even; 
stolen  oats  for  Moses  when  I  was  sick,  I  felt  that  the  arrange 
ment  would  be  consolatory  and  beneficial  to  my  old  charger, 
though  I  never  once  believed  that  Moses  would  forget  his, 
first  love.  I  demanded  and  received  frequent  bulletins  of 
Moses's  health,  and  sent  many  affectionate  messages  to  him, 
but  I  never  allowed  my  jealous  feelings  to  disturb  the  peace- 
for  which  I  was  unable  to  substitute  anything  better. 

Like  many  another  hero  of  the  war,  Moses  was  not  al 
lowed  to  meet  a  hero's  death.  A  stupid  boor  (who  after 
wards  became  a  deserter)  one  day  felled  a  tree  in  such  man 
ner  that  it  fell  upon  Moses  and  crushed  him.  An  old  friend 
of  mine,  controlling  an  impulse  to  shoot  the  murderer,  made 
haste  to  put  a  merciful  bullet  into  Moses's  ear.  No  hole  of 
earth  received  his  remains,  for  the  forest,  taking  fire  soon 
after  his  death,  afforded  a  funeral  pyre  of  a  magnitude  some 
what  in  keeping  with  the  virtues  of  the  dead  hero. 

Since  parting  from  Moses  I  have  formed  acquaintanceship 
with  many  estimable  horses,  whose  mental  and  physical  vir 
tues  I  have  never  been  reluctant  to  acknowledge  ;  I  have, 
passed  many  a  pleasant  hour  in  studying  the  faces  and  forms-, 
of  horses  of  fine  family  and  faultless  breeding  ;  but  no  other 
horse  has  ever  had  the  slightest  success  in  attempts  to  step- 
into  that  place  in  my  heart  which  Moses  vacated.  The  spur 
which  occasionally — never  with  cause — had  touched  Moses's 
side  is  as  dear  to  me  as  lady's  glove  ever  was  to  lover,  and  no 
treasured  curl  in  America  can  inspire  more  tenderly  mournful 
reveries  than  does  a  braid  of  hair  taken  from  the  mane  and, 


MY     FRIEND     MOSES. 


301 


tail  of  Moses.  When  I  recall  the  friends  of  other  days, 
Moses  is  among  the  first  of  those  who  respond ;  and  some 
times,  when  in  dreams  of  the  night  I  imagine  myself  to  have 
passed  into  that  land  for  which  even  the  worst  doubters  find 
themselves  often  hoping,  and  am  surrounded  by  a  welcoming 
group  of  dear  old  friends  of  every  age  and  condition,  among 
and  between  them  is  sure  to  steal,  first  a  sensitive  nose,  then 
an  honest  brown  face,  two  soft  eyes,  and  a  starred  brow,  over 
which  waves  a  lock  of  coal-black  hair. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE. 

THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARCTIC  NIP. 
BY   JOHN   BOYLE   O'REILLY. 


Y,  ay,  I'll  tell  you,  shipmates, 

If  you  care  to  hear  the  tale, 
How  myself  and  the  royal  yard  alone 
Were  left  of  the  old  Narwhale. 


"A  stouter  ship  was  never  launched 

Of  all  the  Clyde-built  whalers  ; 
And  forty  years  of  a  life  at  sea 

Haven:t  matched  her  crowd  of  sailors. 
Picked  men  they  were,  all  young  and  strong, 

And  used  to  the  wildest  seas, 
From  Donegal  and  the  Scottish  coast, 

And  the  rugged  Hebrides. 
Such  men  as  women  cling  to,  mates, 

Like  ivy  round  their  lives  ; 
And  the  day  we  sailed,  the  quays  were  lined 

With  weeping  mothers  and  wives. 
They  cried  and  prayed,  and  we  gave  'em  a  cheer, 

In  the  thoughtless  way  o'  men  ; 
God  help  them,  shipmates — thirty  years 

They've  waited  and  prayed  since  then  ! 


3.06  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

".We  sailed  to  the  North,  and  I  mind  it  well 

The  pity  we  felt,  and  pride 
When  we  sighted  the  cliffs  of  Labrador 

From  the  sea  where  Hudson  died. 
We  talked  of  ships  that  never  came  back ; 

And  when  the  great  floes  passed, 
Like  ghosts  in  the  night,  each  moonlit  peak 

Like  a  great  war-frigate's  mast, 
'T  was  said  that  a  ship  was  frozen  up 

In  the  iceberg's  awful  breast  ; 
The  clear  ice  holding  the  sailor's  face 

As  he  lay  in  his  mortal  rest. 
And  I've  thought  since  then,  when  the  ships  came  home 

That  sailed  for  the  Franklin  band, 
A  mistake  was  made  in  the  reckoning 

That  looked  for  the  crews  on  land. 
'  They're  floating  still,'  I've  said  to  myself, 

'  And  Sir  John  has  found  the  goal ; 
The  Erebus  and  the  Terror,  mates, 

Are  icebergs  up  at  the  pole  ! ' 


"  We  sailed  due  north,  to  Baffin's  Bay, 

And  cruised  through  weeks  of  light, 
•T  was  always  day,  and  we  slept  by  the  bell, 

And  longed  for  the  dear  old  night, 
And  the  blessed  darkness  left  behind, 

Like  a  curtain  round  the  bed  ; 
But  a  month  dragged  on  like  an  afternoon 

With  the  wheeling  sun  o'erhead. 


THE     LAST     OF     THE     NARWHALE.  307 

We  found  the  whales  were  farther  still, 

The  farther  north  we  sailed  ; 
Along  the  Greenland  glacier  coast, 

The  boldest  might  have  quailed, 
Such  Shapes  did  keep  us  company  ; 

No  sail  in  all  that  sea  ; 
But  thick  as  ships  in  Mersey's  tide 

The  bergs  moved  awfully 
Within  the  current's  northward  stream ; 

But,  ere  the  Jong  day's  close, 
We  found  the  whales  and  filled  the  ship 

Amid  the  friendly  floes. 


"  Then  came  a  rest ;  the  day  was  blown 

Like  a  cloud  before  the  night; 
In  the  south  the  sun  went  redly  down — 

In  the  north  rose  another  light. 
Neither  sun  nor  moon,  but  a  shooting  dawn. 

That  silvered  our  lonely  way;    . 
It  seemed  we  sailed  in  a  belt  of  gloom, 

Upon  either  side  a  day. 
The  north  wind  smote  the  sea  to  death ; 

The  pack-ice  closed  us  round — 
The  Narwhale  stood  in  the  level  fields 

As  fast  as  a  ship  aground. 
A  weary  time  it  was  to  wait, 

And  to  wish  for  spring  to  come, 
With  the  pleasant  breeze  and  the  blessed  sun. 

To  open  the  way  toward  home. 


308  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

"  Spring  came  at  last,  and  the  ice-fields  groaned 

Like  living  things  in  pain  ; 
They  moaned  and  swayed,  then  rent  amain, 

And  the  Nanvhale  sailed  again. 
With  joy  the  dripping  sails  were  loosed, 

And  round  the  vessel  swung ; 
To  cheer  the  crew,  full  south  she  drew, 

The  shattered  floes  among. 
We  had  no  books  in  those  old  days 

To  carry  the  friendly  faces ; 
But  I  think  the  wives  and  lasses  then 

Were  held  in  better  places. 
The  face  of  sweetheart  and  wife  to-day 

Is  locked  in  the  sailor's  chest ; 
But  aloft  on  the  yard,  with  the  thought  of  home, 

The  face  in  the  heart  was  best. 
Well,  well — God  knows,  mates,  when  and  where 

To  take  the  things  he  gave  ; 
We  steered  for  home — but  the  chart  was  his, 

And  the  port  ahead — the  grave. 


"'  We  cleared  the  floes ;  through  an  open  sea 

The  Narvvhale  south'ard  sailed, 
Till  a  day  came  round  when  the  white  fog  rose, 

And  the  wind  astern  had  failed. 
In  front  of  the  Greenland  glacier  line 

And  close  to  its  base  were  we  ; 
Through  the  misty  pall  we  could  see  the  wall 

That  beetled  above  the  sea. 


THE     LAST     OF     THE     NARWHALE.  309 

A  fear  like  the  fog  crept  over  our  hearts 

As  were  heard  the  hollow  roar 
Of  the  deep  sea  thrashing  the  cliffs  of  ice 

For  leagues  along  the  shore. 


"  The  years  have  come  and  the  years  have  gone, 

But  it  never  wears  away — 
The  sense  I  have  of  the  sights  and  sounds 

That  marked  that  woful  day. 
Flung  here  and  there  at  the  ocean's  will, 

As  it  flung  the  broken  floe — 
What  strength  had  we  'gainst  the  tiger  sea 

That  sports  with  a  sailor's  woe  ? 
The  lifeless  berg  and  the  lifeful  ship 

Were  the  same  to  the  sullen  wave, 
As  it  swept  them  far  from  ridge  to  ridge, 

Till  at  last  the  Narwhale  dravc 
With  a  crashing  rail  on  the  glacier  wall, 

As  sheer  as  the  vessel's  mast — 
A  crashing  rail  and  a  shivered  yard  ; 

But  the  worst,  we  thought,  was  past. 
The  brave  lads  sprang  to  the  fending  work, 

And  the  skipper's  voice  rang  hard  : 
'  Aloft  there,  one  with  a  ready  knife — 

Cut  loose  that  royal  yard  ! ' 
I  sprang  to  the  rigging,  young  I  was, 

And  proud  to  be  first  to  dare  ; 
The  yard  swung  free,  and  I  turned  to  gaze 
Toward  the  open  sea,  o'er  the  field  of  haze, 


310  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

And  my  heart  grew  cold,  as  if  frozen  through, 
At  the  moving  Shape  that  met  my  view— 
O  Christ !  what  a  sight  was  there  ! 


"  Above  the  fog,  as  I  hugged  the  yard, 

I  saw  that  an  iceberg  lay — 
A  berg  like  a  mountain,  closing  fast — 

Not 'a  cable's  length  away! 
I  could  not  see  through  the  sheet  of  mist 

That  covered  all  below, 
But  I  heard  their  cheery  voices  still. 

And  I  screamed  to  let  them  know. 
The  cry  went  down,  and  the  skipper  hailed, 

But  before  the  word  could  come 
It  died  in  his  throat,  and  I  knew  they  saw 

The  shape  of  the  closing  Doom  ! 


"  No  sound. but  that — but  the  hail  that  died 

Came  up  through  the  mist  to  me  ; 
Thank  God,  it  covered  the  ship  like  a  veil, 

And  I  was  not  forced  to  see  ; 
But  I  heard  it,  mates :  oh !  I  heard  the  rush 

And  the  timbers  rend  and  rive, 
As  the  yard  I  clung  to  swayed  and  fell. 

I  lay  on  the  ice  alive ! 
Alive !  O  Lord  of  Mercy !  ship  and  crew  and  sea  were 

gone  ! 

The  hummocked  ice  and  the  broken  yard, 
And  a  kneeling  man — alone  ! 


THE     LAST     OF     THE     NARWHALE.  311 

A  kneeling  man  on  a  frozen  hill, 

The  sounds  of  life  in  the  air — 
All  death  and  ice— and  a  minute  before 

The  sea  and  ship  were  there .' 
I  could  not  think  they  were  dead  and  gone. 

And  I  listened  for  a  sound  or  word  ; 
But  the  deep  sea  roar  on  the  desolate  shore 

Was  the  only  sound  I  heard. 
'O  mates  !   I  had  no  heart  to  thank 

The  Lord  for  the  life  he  gave  ; 
I  spread  my  arms  on  the  ice  and  cried 

Aloud  on  my  shipmates'  grave. 
The  brave  strong  lads,  with  their  strength  all  vain, 

I  called  them  name  by  name  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  from  the  dying  hearts 

A  message  upward  came — 
Ay,  mates,  a  message,  up  through  the  ice 

From  every  sailor's  breast : 
'Go  tell  our  motJicrs  and  our  wives  at  home 

To  pray  for  us  here  at  rest. ' 


'  Yes, .that's  what  it  means  ;   'tis  a  little  word  ; 

But,  mates,  the  strongest  ship 
That  ever  was  built  is  a  baby's  toy 
When  it  comes  to  an  Arctic  Nip." 


THE  GENIUS  OF  COMMON  SENSE. 


3r3 


THE  GENIUS  OF  COMMON  SENSE. 


T  never  passes  for  genius.  It  is  always 
underrated,  it  is  continually  overlooked 
and  forgotten,  even  by  the  very  peo 
ple  who  are  most  dependent  upon  it. 
It  is  always  so  quiet,  this  genius,  so 
different  from  the  poetic  genius,  from 
the  artistic  genius,  from  the  commer 
cial  or  diplomatic  genius,  in  fact,  from  everything  which  is 
in  the  habit  of  calling  itself  or  being  called  genius.  It  is  al 
ways  so  modest,  too,  this  genius.  It  never  "  contributes  '* 
(Heaven  save  the  mark !  What  a  superfluous  condescension 
there  doth  seem  to  be  in  that  phrase  !)  to  the  periodical 
literature  of  its  day.  It  never  paints  anything,  invents  any 
thing,  achieves  anything  of  which  the  world  hears.  It  very 
rarely  even  says  anything  which  has  a  wise  or  witty  sound. 
Diners-out  do  not  find  a  use  for  it.  Shows  and  spectacles  of 
all  kinds  scorn  and  ignore  it.  On  the  surface  of  life,  at  great 
festivals  and  famous  gatherings,  its  na\ne  is  never  counted. 
From  all  the  fine  presentations  which  our  conceited  humanity 
is  forever  making  of  itself  this  humble  genius  stays  away,  like 
a  very  Cinderella,  washing  pots  and  kettles  in  the  ashes  at 
home,  and  not  dreaming  that  it  shall  ever  see  the  prince;  not 
even  knowing,  in  fact,  that  there  is  any  prince  to  be  seen. 
For,  if  this  dear  genius  of  common  sense  has  any  one  dis 
tinguishing  trait,  it  is  a  lack  of  curiosity  as  to  all  that  part  of 


3'S 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 

the  world  which  lies  outside  its  own  modest  circle  of  affec 
tions  and  duties.  It  is  too  busy  to  attend  to  rumors;  too 
satisfied  in  its  industry  to  long  for  a  larger  sphere.  It  has 
much  more  to  do  than  anybody  supposes.  If  it  is  a  woman, 
the  chances  are  that  she  is  what  the  world  calls  "  plain,"  and 
that  she  will  live  and  die  without  any  man  seeking  her  for  his 
wife — so  little  is  there  of  fascination  about  this  £ood  eenius 

o  o 

of  common  sense.  But  when  she  dies  there  will  be  countless 
places  to  miss  her ;  many  good  causes  that  will  have  lost  their 
most  efficient  helper ;  homes  that  have  lost  the  unsuspected 
lever  which  lightened  every  burden  ;  and  lives  that  have  lost 
the  staff  on  which,  without  knowing  it,  they  have  been  always 
leaning. 

If  it  is  a  man,  the  chances  are  that  he  will  lead  a  lonely 
life,  rather  than  a  social  one.  Common  sense  is  always  busy. 
Common  sense  is  honest,  uncompromising,  and  clear-sighted. 
Common  sense  has  no  patience  with  shams,  and  has  an  in 
stinctive  distrust  of  much  of  what  is  called  sentiment. 
Hence  it  is  clear  that  the  common-sense  genius  will  be  left 
much  alone.  His  kind  are  few  and  far  between,  and  those 
not  of  his  kind  have  as  little  fellowship  with  him  as  he  has 
with  them.  He  is  not  apt  to  marry  till  he  has  begun  to  grow 
old.  He  makes  a  good  husband,  loyal  and  kind  ;  a  good 
father,  wise  and  firm  ;  but  he  is  almost  sure  to  be  underrated, 
even  in  the  bosom  of  his  own  family,  so  little  is  there  of 
demonstrativeness  or  self-assertion  in  the  true  genius  of  com 
mon  sense.  But  when  he  dies  the  space  that  he  has  filled  is 
for  the  first  time  measured — measured  by  the  void  it  is  im 
possible  to  supply.  He  it  is  who  has  been  an  efficient  centre 
of  influence  in  the  community;  a  mainstay  of  wisdom  and 
counsel ;  an  unconscious  guaranty  and  security  for  men's  con- 


THE     GENIUS     OF     COMMON     SENSE.  317 

fidence  in  enterprises ;  a  help  and  a  blessing,  over  whose  lack 
friends  and  strangers  mourn  alike  in  an  astonished  sense  of 
loss. 

This  is  the  thing  and  this  is  the  sort  of  character  by 
whose  strength  nations  last,  communities  prosper,  and  indi 
viduals  succeed.  Exceptional  powers  in  exceptional  direc 
tions  produce  startling  results.  Commanders  conquer,  states 
men  devise,  poets  and  painters  create,  fame  dowers  them  all, 
and  life  goes  on  with  great  show  of  their  progress  and 
blazonry  of  their  successes  ;  but  it  was  the  ten  righteous  men 
that  saved  the  city,  after  all — saved  it  because  they  were 
righteous,  not  because  they  were  great.  The  genius  of  com 
mon  sense  saves  the  world,  after  all;  saves  it  because  there  is 
no  safety,  no  true  principle  of  harmony  in  anything  else  or 
anything  less. 

In  the  olden  time  this  genius  of  common  sense  was  better 
esteemed  than  it  is  now.  Men  who  had  this  frame  of  mind 
and  habit  of  behavior  were  called  philosophers,  and  the  whole 
world  listened  to  their  sayings.  Socrates  and  Plato  and 
Epictetus,  their  maxims  are  simply  the  first  principles  of 
common  sense  applied  to  human  affairs — as  true  to-day  as 
three  thousand  years  ago  ;  true  once,  true  for  ever. 

I  said  that  this  humble  genius  of  common  sense  stayed 
away  from  the  surface  presentations  and  fine  shows  of  life, 
like  a  very  Cinderella  left  at  home  to  wash  pots  and  kettles 
in  the  ashes.  But  it  has  an  all-powerful  godmother,  named 
Time.  Its  triumph  and  exaltation  are  certain  to  come  at 
last.  Not,  as  in  the  old  fairy  tale,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of 
the  splendor  and  pomp  of  a  night;  but  slowly  and  surely,  as 
come  all  things  which  are  good  ;  quietly  and  unostentatiously, 
as  come  all  things  which  are  true. 


318  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

In  one  more  respect  is  this  good  genius  of  common  sense 
greater  than  any  other  sort  of  genius.  It  cannot  be  acquired. 
Hard-working  and  persevering  talent  can  lift  itself  nearly  if 
not  quite  to  the  level  of  genius  in  any  of  its  realms;  but  a 
lifetime  of  effort  would  be  thrown  away  in  trying  to  win  com 
mon  sense,  if  one  were  born  without  it.  The  old  Scotchman 
was  as  right  as  he  was  droll  when  he  said  : 

"  There  are  three  things  a  man  needs :  gude  health, 
religion,  and  gude  sense.  If  he  can  hae  but  one  o'  these,  let 
it  be  gude  sense  ;  for  God  can  gie  him  health,  and  God  can 
gie  him  grace,  but.  naebody  can  gie  him  common  sense." 


THE  LIGHT  OF  AGES. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  AGES." 


BY  JOHN   G.  WilITTI£R. 

f/ET  there  be  light .'  "     God  spake  of  oid, 
And  over  Chaos,  dark  and  cold, 
And  through  the  dead  and  formless  frame 
Of  Nature,  life  and  order  came. 


Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half- formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves,  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  and  man  ; 
And  rnind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark, 
Its  meanings  traced  en  stone  and  bark. 


On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge-wrought  roll, 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thought :  the  ages  passed, 
When  lo !  the  Press  was  found  at  last. 

Then  dead  souls  woke  ;  the  thoughts  of  men 
Whose  bones  were  dust,  revived  again  : 
The  cloister's  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

*  Written  for  the  dedication  of  the  Haverhill  (Mass.)  Library,  November  n,  1875. 

321 


322  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down, 
And  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown  ; 
We  hear  the  sage's  word  ;  we  trace 
The  footprints  of  our  human  race. 


Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves  ; 
And  Shakspere  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

\s  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spokes 
Life  thrills  around  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  awake  our  call ! 


ON    GUARD. 


\  1? 

&',M  lii  f   .    I  V  Vn  >- 


ON    GUARD. 

BY    BERTHOLD    AUERBACH. 


CHAPTER    I. 


'HEN    are    the    carriages    ordered?"    was 
asked    of    the     servant    in     court-dress, 
who  opened  the  carriage-door. 
"  At  one  o'clock,"  was  the  answer. 
In  the  meanwhile,  the  ladies,  wrapped 
in  cloaks,  with  their  flower-decked  heads 
uncovered,  or  with   a  light  veil  thrown  over,  went  with  satin- 
shod  little  feet  over  the  carpet  that  was  spread  far  out  into  the 
•street. 

The  governor  of  the  castle,  General  von  Kronwaechter,  gave 
this  evening  the  first  ball ;'  and  the  first  ball  of  the  season  has 
ever  something  fresh  and  enlivening,  like  the  first  spring — :  there 
were  new  faces,  and  fresh  toilettes  too. 

The  facade  of  the  solemn,  large  government  building  was 
brightly  illuminated,  on  the  street  were  burning  torches,  two 
policemen  kept  the  staring  crowd  apart,  so  that  the  guests  could 
freely  enter  the  open  door,  before  which  two  grenadiers  kept 
guard,  and  ever,  according  to  the  rank  of  the  arrivals,  carried 

•or  presented  arms. 

325 


326  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Carriage  after  carriage  rolled  up ;  many  pedestrians  also 
appeared,  almost  exclusively  in  uniform.  On  the  broad  stair 
case  the  young  officers  gave  to  their  servants  their  cloaks  and 
ordered  them  at  the  appointed  hour ;  then  they  mounted  the 
wide,  carpeted,  flower-adorned  stairs  ;  above,  before  the  immense 
mirrors,  they  took  a  last  look  at  themselves,  and  then  stepped 
forward  with  erect  bearing,  carrying  the  helmet  under  the  left 
arm.  The  folding-doors  opened,  they  entered. 

In  the  first  apartment,  which  on  the  right  and  left  opened  into 
brilliantly-lighted  rooms,  stood  the  governor,  —  a  tall,  stately 
man,  with  short  and  thick  gray  hair,  and  a  light  beard.  On  his 
breast  glistened  numerous  high  orders.  He  greeted  his  guests 
most  cordially.  Each  individual  might  have  believed  himself 
especially  invited,  and  himself  especially,  or  above  all,  welcome. 
Many  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  the  old  gentleman  was  most 
delighted  at  the  happiness  of  welcoming  at  his  house  this  or 
that  gentleman,  or  this  or  that  lady.  In  the  mean  time,  how 
ever,  there  were  discriminations,  —  sometimes  one  hand  only 
was  given,  often  was  an  offered  one  taken  between  both ;  a  sig 
nificant  glance,  a  quick  nodding  of  the  head  had,  meaning.  The 
usually  stern  nobleman  was  ever  affable  and  in  a  happy  mood 
when  he  was  entertaining  company ;  and  this  excessive  friendli 
ness  was  not  throughout  a  mere  appearance  or  illusion,  for  he 
felt  that  he  represented  the  highest  person  in  the  land,  so  it  was. 
his  duty  to  be  gracious.  Moreover,  he  had,  like  many  old 
officers,  a  great  resemblance  to  the  reigning  prince,  and  he  in 
creased  this  resemblance  still  more  by  copying  the  exact  fashion 
of  the  prince's  beard. 

Next  to  the  governor  stood  his  only  daughter,  Gabriele,  and 
she  greeted,  with  as  much  grace  as  dignity,  those  who,  to  her 
youthful  eyes,  appeared  to  be  so  deserving. 


ON     GUARD.  327 

Had  the  Greeks  of  ancient  times  known  this  soldier's  daugh 
ter,  they  would  have  made  a  statue  like  her;  for  she  was  ad 
mirable  in  a  way  that  is  not  easy  to  define.  She  was  not  only 
dignified  and  graceful,  but  there  was  a  certain  security  in  her 
expression  and  carriage  —  a  formed  firmness  — which  had,  how 
ever,  something  of  smiling  sociability  and  self-understanding 
propriety,  all  of  which  seemed  to  ordinary  citizens  new  and 
peculiar.  Evidently,  these  singularities  were  the  results  of 
moving  in  a  position  which,  like  no  other,  required  the  display 
•of  extreme  intelligence  with  respect  to  the  gradations  of  rank. 
Gabriele  had  now,  for  three  winters,  dispensed  the  honors  of 
the  house  since  her  return  from  boarding-school.  The  little 
blonde  head,  with  fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  beautiful  lips,  and  care 
fully-chiselled  features,  rested  on  a  most  beautifully  shaped  neck 
and  shoulders.  She  wore  no  ornaments  ;  she  was  simply  dressed 
in  white,  with  a  crimson  sash,  and  her  figure  was  pliant  and 
delicate. 

"  Gracious  lady,  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  dancing  with 
you  ?  "  asked  a  young  lieutenant,  with  brown  hair  and  sparkling 
brown  eyes. 

"  Certainly.  Will  you  put  down  your  name?  The  cotillon, 
if  that  suits  you." 

Only  a  single  answering  glance  of  the  young  man  seemed  to 
reply,  as  if  this  dialogue  had  been  previously  arranged.  He 
wrote  his  name  simply,  "  Hanenstein,"  —  for  that  he  was  first 
lieutenant  was  known  just  as  well  as  that  he  was  Baron  von 
Hanenstein. 

Hanenstein  went  back ;  a  beam  of  joy  had  passed  over  his 
bright  young  countenance,  but  it  soon  again  yielded  to  a  medi 
tative  earnestness.  He  heard  here  and  there  said,  as  very  much 
to  be  regretted,  that  this  would  indeed  for  a  long  time  be  the 


328  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

last  ball  that  would  be  graced  by  the  governor's  lovely  daughter^ 
for  it  was  already  announced  that  she  would  enter  as  court  lady 
with  the  reigning  princess,  whose  first  lady-in-waiting,  Countess 
Truben,  was  the  sister  of  her  dead  mother. 

The  dancing  began,  the  hall  with  the  gayly-arrayed  people 
was  beautiful  to  look  at.  It  was  an  apartment  of  the  good 
renaissance  time,  with  handsome  stucco-work  and  a  bright- 
colored  mythological  fresco  on  the  ceiling ;  for  the  government 
building  was  once  a  royal  residence. 

The  band  of  musicians  sat  behind  an  ivy-covered  lattice  in  an, 
adjoining  room  ;  one  could  not  see  how  the  musicians  toiled,., 
one  only  perceived  the  delightful  dance-measure. 

Hanenstein  passed  the  recognized  beauties,  who  were  imme 
diately  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  suppliants,  without  further 
trying  his  luck.  He  put  the  dance-programme  in  his  breast 
pocket —  he  had,  indeed,  nothing  more  to  mark  on  it. 

He  went  into  the  saloons  and  remained,  standing  here  and 
there  before  a  painting,  a  statuette,  or  another  work  of  art.  At 
last  he  seated  himself  in  the  round  hall,  and  read  in  an  album 
lying  before  him. 

"  Thus  idle?  "  was  said  to  him. 

He  quickly  arose  and  saluted  his  major,  while  he  explained 
that  he,  this  evening  particularly,  was  not  in  a  mood  for 
dancing. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  can  believe  it,"  answered  the  major.  "  I  have 
also  read  it  to-day  in  the  newspaper.  It  is,  moreover,  painful,, 
cruel !  He  was  certainly  an  incorrigible  revolutionist,  but  with 
it  all  he  had,  however,  a  certain  nobility  —  something  distin 
guished.  Do  you  know  whether  he  has  parents  or  brothers  and 
sisters  living?  '' 

"  Only  one  sister ;  but,  so  far  as  I  know,  she  lives  in  France."' 


ON     GUARD.  329 

"  He  told  you  that  himself?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  would  have  gone  to  France?  " 

"  He  said  nothing  to  me  about  it,  and  I  never  asked  concern 
ing  things  that  he  did  not  himself  confide  to  me." 

The  major  laid  his  hand  on  Hanenstein's  shoulder,  and  said, — 

"  It  is  not  well,  or  it  is  rarely  well,  for  one  to  overstep  the 
bounds  to  concern  himself  with  the  prisoners  and  enter  into  any 
sort  of  relations  with  them.  The  officer  on  duty  there  is  only 
the  supporter  of  the  keepers  of  the  prison.  We  have  not  to 
think  of  what  material  is  stored  in  the  structure- — whether 
ammunition  or  living  men.  And  now,  come  with  me  to  the 
smoking-room ;  there  is  wine  there." 

The  two  went  one  story  higher,  and  up  there  was  quite  another 
life.  In  the  billiard-room,  where  the  game  was  being  busily 
played,  sat  groups,  partly  by  the  walls,  and  partly  at  round 
tables.  These  were  smoking,  and  the  major  led  Hanenstein  in 
to  seat  him  at  a  table,  where  several  officers  were  already  seated, 
and  among  them  the  colonel  of  his  regiment. 

They  spoke  of  promotions,  of  exchanges,  of  the  new  rifle 
practice,  and  who  should  be  ordered  to  it,  and  at  intervals  also 
of  love  affairs. 

An  officer  then  exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah,  Hanenstein  !  You  know, .  surely,  the  Pole  of  whom 
to-day's  paper  speaks.  I  remember  that  you  once  related  of 
him  —  " 

"  The  major  is  also  acquainted  with  him." 

"  But  it  was  you  who  delivered  him  over."  urged  the  first, 
again. 

"Indeed!"  cried  the  colonel.  "How  was  it?  Relate  it, 
and  give  all  the  particulars." 


330  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Hanenstein  began :  — 

"You  know  that  the  man  —  he  was  only  one-and-twenty 
years  old  —  had  taken  part  in  the  revolution  at  the  capital,  and 
on  that  account  was  condemned  to  imprisonment.  He  had  an 
extraordinary  fine  voice,  but  at  first  he  sang  only  at  night,  for 
as  yet  no  light  was  allowed  him.  It  was  granted  him  after  an 
intercession ;  whose,  I  don't  know." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  major,  "  I  received  the  permission,  and 
then  I  came  into  relations  with  the  prisoner.  But  relate  farther, 
I  beg  you." 

"  He  had  continued,"  Hanenstein  resumed,  "  to  study  mili 
tary  construction ;  and  one  day,  when  I  was  on  guard,  I  got  into 
a  conversation  with  him,  and  found  a  highly  cultivated,  enthusi 
astic  young  man,  whose  ideas  were  unhappily  perverted  in  es 
sential  points.  I  naturally  very  soon  gave  up  the  attempt  to 
convert  him,  for  that  was  neither  my  office,  nor  was  I  capa 
ble  of  it.  He  confessed  to  me  often  that  he,  in  -his  seclusion, 
wanted  to  fit  himself  for  a  general ;  for  he  was  determined,  if 
that  which  he  called  freedom  called  him  again,  to  place  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  revolutionary  host.  I  entreated  him  not  to 
speak  of  it,  and  he  amiably  begged  to  apologize.  I  supplied 
him  still  with  music,  for  which  I  had  before  asked  permission. 
He  liked  to  read  music  in  score.  An  instrument,  for  which  he 
had  often  petitioned,  was  not  granted  him ;  still  music,  as  com 
mon,  neutral  ground,  gave  us  many  pleasant  conversations  and 
debates,  for  he  maintained  that  the  Germans  and  Italians  are 
adapted  to  political  life,  because  they  are  pre-eminently  musical." 

"  Strange  !  "  cried  the  colonel ;  "  but,  I  pray  you,  tell .  us 
more.  He  interests  me  much." 

Hanenstein  went  on  :  — 

"  And  there  arose  gradually  in  the  course  of  these  years,  a 


ON     GUARD.  331 

friendly  feeling  between  us,  so  that  the  young  man  assured  me, 
with  overflowing  expressions,  how  much  he  thanked  me,  and 
promised  to  visit  me  as  soon  as  he  regained  his  freedom.  I 
answered  nothing  to  that,  but  gave  the  order  that  when  he  sent 
in  his  name,  they  should  tell  him  I  was  not  at  home.  The 
young  man  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  six  weeks  made  marks 
on  the  wall,  and  every  day  rubbed  one  out;  each  of  these 
erased  lines  brought  the  point  of  time  nearer  to  him  when  his 
prison  should  open.  I  was  on  guard  at  the  citadel,  when  the 
young  Pole,  at  eight  o'clock,  was  to  have  his  release.  I  was 
awakened  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  the  city  director  of 
police  was  there,  and  with  him  two  foreigners.  He  gave  me  an 
order  from  the  minister  that  I  should  deliver  the  young  prisoner 
to  the  two  men.  I  did  not  know  what  it  meant,  but  I  must  say 
it  was  a  bitter  task,  In  the  mean  time,  I  led  the  two  men  into 
the  cell  to  him.  When  the  Pole  descried  them,  he  called,  with 
a  heart-piercing  voice,  '  These  are  my  executioners,  and  you 
must  immediately  deliver  me  from  them.  But  you  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  it.  Pardon  me !  '  I  left,  and  the  two  men  led 
the  way,  while  two  soldiers,  on  this  side  and  on  that,  with  loaded 
weapons,  led  the  prisoner  between  them.  He  did  not  look  to 
wards  me  again,  and  —  " 

Hanenstein  broke  off  and  sighed  deeply.  He  felt  that  he  had 
not  controlled  himself  in  a  military  way,  —  at  a  ball,  too,  —  and 
that  the  superior  opposite  would  not  forget  it.  He  therefore 
continued :  — 

"  The  rest  you  have  seen  in  to-day's,  paper.  As  the  young 
man  was  brought  over  the  Russian  border  he  tried  tx>  flee,  and 
was  bayoneted  to  death." - 

"  It  is  indeed  a  pity  about  him,"  added  the  major.  *'  He  had, 
as  you  said,  a  noble  nature,  in  spite  of —  " 


332  PAPYRUS       LEAVES. 

"  Herr  von  Hanenstein,"  cried  an  ensign  who  entered  in  haste, 
"  Fraulein  von  Kronwaechter  permits  me  to  tell  you  that  the 
cotillon  is  beginning." 

Hanenstein  quickly  arose,  and  went  down  to  the  salon.  Hap 
pily  he  was  in  time,  although  the  first  preparations  were  made. 

"  Why  have  you  not  danced  for  so  long?  "  inquired  Gabriele. 

"  I  stopped  so  as  to  be  so  much  the  fresher  now,"  returned 
Hanenstein,  recovering  himself,  and  led  the  cotillon  with  Gabri 
ele.  It  was  evident  that  many  playful  and  graceful  figures  had 
been  previously  arranged  between  them. 

Old  ladies,  who  sat  on  sofas  against  the  wall  on  a  platform, 
spoke  with  each  other,  and  and  all  agreed  that  Hanenstein  was 
remarkably  favored :  he  was,  without  doubt,  of  a  good  family, 
but  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  Gabriele  seemed  to  prefer  him ; 
but  it  would  be  laughable  above  all  if  he  proposed  to  himself, 
one  day,  to  lead  this  child  to  his  home,  because  the  governor 
permitted  him  to  play  duets  with  her. 

One  of  the  ladies,  in  whose  strongly-marked  countenance  for 
mer  beauty  and  present  love  of  power  were  unmistakable,  said, 
with  a  laugh  that  challenged  further  gossip, — 

"  It  will  be  very  useful  for  Fraulein  Gabriele  to  live  a  long 
time  at  the  court  in  order  to  learn  self-discipline ;  for  it  is  very 
dangerous  for  so  young  a  child  to  have  her  own  way  without 
contradiction  in  so  large  a  house,  and  Gabriele  has  from  nature 
her  own  share  of  strength  of  will,  which  perhaps  approaches 
obstinacy." 

No  one  answered  her.  The  young  people  in  the  mean  time 
asked  each  other  nothing  of  the  future  —  they  seemed  contented 
in  the  present;  but  still,  during  a  pause,  Gabriele  inquired, — 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  is  this  evening  an  indelible  seriousness 
in  your  face.  Can  you  tell  me  what  distresses  you  ?  " 


ON     GUARD. 

"Not  here  —  not  now!  But  thus  much  can  I  tell  you, —  it 
does  not  concern  me  personally." 

"  Now,  then,  endeavor  to  forget  it." 

The  young  man  appeared  to  succeed  in  doing  so. 

The  old  gentlemen  from  the  card-room  and  the  smoking-room 
had  come  here  in  order  to  look  at  the  ingenious  new  figures,  and 
all  agreed  that  this  evening  a  galaxy  of  most  exquisite  beauties 
was  to  be  seen  at  the  ball ;  but  one  of  the  loveliest  was 
Gabriele. 

Hanenstein  had,  as  last  dancer,  the  pleasure  of  leading 
Gabriele  to  the  table.  After  the  last  dance  the  tables  in  the 
salon  and  the  adjoining  rooms  were  arranged  as  if  by  magic. 

Hanenstein  sat  next  to  Gabriele.  She  excused  herself  after  a 
moment,  and  laid  her  large  bouquet  on  her  chair,  saying,  — 

"  I  must  now,  as  hostess,  see  if  everything  is  in  order." 

She  went,  and  Hanenstein  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  empty 
place  and  at  the  large  bouquet.  Gabriele  came  back  and 
said, — 

"  You  have  again  the  solemn  look.  Can  you  tell  me  what 
afflicts  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  suitable  for  here.  We  are  so  gay  that  one  cannot 
believe  there  is  anything  mournful  in  the  world  ;  and  why  should 
we  conjure  it  up  here?  Besides,  I  need  all  my  energy.  I  must 
go  on  guard  at  the  citadel  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  Is  that  so  hard?  " 

"  Not  that." 

"  Then  something  else  torments  you.  Tell  me  at  once. 
Cannot  I  perhaps  contribute  something  to  the  lessening  of  your 
gloomy  mood?  If  I  can,  relate  it  to  me,  I  beg;  if  not,  forget  it 
now,  and  tell  it  me  another  time." 

"  You  cannot  help  me.     I  cannot  tell   you  anything.      But 


334  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

you  are  right.  Away  with  all  sorrow!  Life  is  so  beautiful. 
Let  us  touch  our  glasses,  to  the  wish  that  we  may  ever  find  life 
as  now." 

The  two  clinked  their  glasses.  The  ball  was  at  an  end.  One 
said  to  another,  while  wrapping  themselves  in  cloaks,  that  there 
had  seldom  been  a  pleasanter  evening,  arid  the  thanks  that  were 
spoken  to  the  governor  and  his  daughter  were  given  in  tones 
of  truthfulness.  It  created  much  amusement  when  Gabriele 
once  answered  that  she  also  felt  there  had  seldom  been  so 
pleasant  an  evening. 

When  Hanenstein  took  leave,  there  were  no  more  words 
exchanged  between  him  and  Gabriele.  He  only  placed,  as 
he  turned  away,  his  hand  on  a  lily-of-the-valley  that  was  stuck 
in  his  buttonhole.  She  had  taken  the  same  from  her  bouquet, 
and  given  it  to  him. 

On  the  street  brother-officers  called,  — 

"  Hanenstein,  come  along  !  We  are  going  to  the  club.  Nor- 
deck  has  lost  three  bottles  of  champagne  by  a  bet.  Come  with 
us  !  " 

Hanenstein  excused  himself.  He  was  tired  and  must  go  on 
guard  in  the  morning.  A  few  of  his  comrades  still  called  after 
him, — 

"  We  are  coming  to-morrow  evening  to  you  for  a  rubber  of 
whist.  Prepare  a  bowl  of  punch." 


ON     GUARD.  335 


CHAPTER   II. 

|T  was  a  raw  autumn  morning,  when  Hanenstein 
marched  up  the  hill  with  his  company,  for  the  cita 
del  stood  on  high  ground,  in  the  middle  of  the  city. 
The  surrounding  wall  and  casemates  concealed  the 
extent  of  the  plateau  and  the  buildings  which  were  erected  upon 
it.  A  considerable  number  of  prisoners  were  here  confined  :  only 
a  few  on  account  of  duels,  for  these  events  occurred  in  the  year 
of  1850;  most  were  imprisoned  on  account  of  political  offences. 
One  overlooked  from  here  the  whole  city,  with  its  confusion  of 
houses,  the  before-mentioned  fortifications,  and  the  surrounding 
villages  beyond. 

Hanenstein  relieved  the  guard,  took  the  list  of  prisoners,  and 
gazed  long  at  one  name  that  was  cancelled,  but,  throwing  his 
head  back,  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"The  major  is  right:  we  have  nothing  to  ask  about  the 
material,  whether  ammunition  or  men's  lives  are  in  question." 

Hanenstein  was  weary,  and  after  he  had  visited  the  guard 
he  stretched  himself  on  the  bed  of  boards.  He  ordered  the 
sergeant  that,  if  he  slept,  they  should  not  awaken  him  —  the 
sergeant  might  see  to  everything  himself. 

But  hardly  had  he  laid  himself  down  than  he  was  roused. 
The  keeper  of  the  prison  stood  before  him  and  begged  his 
assistance. 

"  What  is  the  matter?     Has  a  prisoner  broken  loose?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  The  only  trouble  is,  I  do  not  know  how  to  manage, 
and  have  promised  the  prisoner  to  bring  you  to  him." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  him." 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 


"  That  I  have  also  said,  but  the  man  will  do  himself  an 
injury  if  we  do  not  quiet  him,  and  his  case  is  so  sad." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Number  Five." 

Hanenstein  looked.  The  name  was  that  of  a  lawyer's  clerk 
from  one  of  the  adjoining  villages.  Hanenstein  dressed  himself 
quickly,  and  went  to  the  man's  cell. 

"  Herr  Lieutenant,"  cried  a  man  with  a  gray  beard  and  severe 
expression,  "  I  shall  become  crazy,  or  I  shall  die,  if  you  do  not 
help  me." 

"What  is  it  —  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  have  a  letter  —  my  wife  lies  dying.  With  all  her  remain 
ing  strength  she  calls  me.  Herr  Lieutenant  !  by  all  that 
remains  to  me,  by  the  Holiest,  by  my  respect  for  myself  and  for 
the  truth,  I  swear  to  you,  I  will  be  here  again  by  ten  o'clock. 
Let  me  out  —  let  me  bear  to  my  sorely-tried  wife  the  last  con 
solation." 

"  You  know  what  is  before  me  if  I  set  you  free." 

"  I  do.  And  therefore  I  promise  you  I  will  be  innocent  of 
the  worst  thing  in  the  world  ;  and  the  worst  is,  that  you  should 
have  no  more  faith  in  man.  I  will  not  be  innocent  of  that  if  I 
break  my  word.  And  thereupon  I  swear  to  you,  if  you  let  me 
free  a  few  hours,  I  will  be  here  again  at  the  appointed  minute. 
Herr  Lieutenant,  you  are  my  master,  but  you  are  also  a  son  ! 
You  have  a  father,  you  have  a  mother.  There  stands  the  dwell 
ing  —  over  yonder  —  you  can  see  it.  If  you  could  also  hear 
the  cries  of  grief  uttered  by  a  dying  woman,  a  loving  wife  ! 
Some  future  day,  when  you  have  a  loving  wife  of  your  own, 
may  this  be  repaid  you  a  thousand  times  !  When  you  stand  at 
the  altar,  an  invisible  blessing  will  descend  upon  you.  Think 


ON     GUARD.  337 

now  of  nothing  else  but  that  you  have  a  heart.  I  swear  to  you, 
a  dying  one  speaks  with  me." 

"  I  will  at  once  state  the  case  to  the  commandant." 

"  That  will  be  too  late." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  guard  to  go  with  you." 

"That  will  at  once  betray  you.  O  Herr  Lieutenant,  you 
feel  my  terrible  position ;  have  the  courage  to  believe  in  a  man 
—  your  confidence  will  not  be  abused.  A  despairing  one  pleads, 
a  dying  one  pleads  with  him.  Let  me  be  free  for  a  few  hours  !  " 

"  Good;  so  be  it!  '  Spend  no  more  strength  in  speaking  — 
you  need  all  your  strength.  Give  me  your  hand.  ' 

"  Here  is  my  hand.  Every  word  that  I  should  further  swear 
would  be  a  sin.  My  hand  says  all  to  you,  and  now  I  beg  you, 
not  a  moment  longer.  Every  minute  may  be  the  last !  " 

The  man  was  liberated,  and  Hanenstein  returned  to  the  guard 
room. 

He  did  not  think  much  further  about  what  had  passed  ;  he  was 
soldier  enough  not  to  worry  over  a  finished  deed.  He  had 
acted  from  impulse,  the  deed  was  done,  and  every  other 
thought  was  superfluous.  He  sought  for  sleep  —  he  did  not 
easily  find  it ;  but  at  last  youth  and  weariness  conquered. 

He  was  awakened  —  it  struck  ten. 

"  Is  the  man  at  Number  Five  back?  " 

"  No." 

"  Go  out,  and  look  if  he  is  not  on  the  road.  But  return  at 
once." 

The  orderly  went  out,  and  came  back  immediately,  reporting 
that  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

"Well,  just  go  out  again,  and  look  around  you.  I  will  come 
soon  after." 


338  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Hanenstein  dressed  himself,  took  his  sword,  and  went  on  the 
drawbridge.  One  could  there  see  around  over  all  the  country. 
He  had  his  field-glass,  but  he  saw  nothing.  But  now,  now  he 
sees  something !  There  comes  the  colonel  riding  thither  on  his 
white  horse,  and  behind  him  the  orderly.  The  agitated  counte 
nance  of  the  young  man  betrayed  the  storm  within,  and  he  said 
to  himself,  "  Now  you  are  ruined." 

The  colonel  came  nearer  and  nearer ;  he  stopped  on  the 
bridge  and  asked,  "Why  are  you  here?  " 

"  Herr  Colonel,  I  have  committed  a  crime,  a  serious  one." 

In  a  few  words  Hanenstein  related  what  he  had  done. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  commit  so  serious  a  crime  as  that? 
You  know  well  what  follows  it.  I  cannot  save  you,  I  noticed 
yesterday  that  you  are  not  without  sympathy  for  certain  crimi 
nals.  Go  on  ahead.  Do  you  not  hear?  Go  on  ahead  —  I  fol 
low  right  behind  you." 

Hanenstein  went  forward  with  sunken  head,  the  soldiers 
marched  under  arms,  and  the  colonel  dismounted.  Hanenstein 
was  relieved,  and  there,  in  the  guard-room,  must  he  give  up  his 
spurs  and  sword,  and  be  taken  in  arrest  to  the  very  cell  which 
the  Pole  had  once  occupied.  There  were  to  be  recognized  still 
the  crossed-out  strokes  on  the  wall. 

Mournfully  and  despondently  sat  Hanenstein  in  the  cell,  and 
his  first  thought  was  not  of  his  own  pain,  but  of  Gabriele's. 
How  would  her  heart  be  torn  !  But  it  must  be  borne.  What  a 
fathomless  gulf  lies  between  to-day  and  yesterday !  How  can 
it  be  possible  that  the  man  who  spoke  so  earnestly  could  be  so 
faithless?  Oh,  truly,  the  men  who  want  to  overthrow  the  gov 
ernment,  to  whom  no  oath  is  holy,  few  or  none  of  whom  hold 
anything  true  and  sacred,  how  should  this  one  be  the  excep 
tion?  And  the  man  said,  "  I  will  take  the  guilt  of  your  never 


ON     GUARD.  339 

believing  in  man  again  upon  myself."     Absurd  !     That  he  can 
easily  bear. 

In  addition  to  his  bitterness,  Hanenstein  felt  sorrow  and  con 
sciousness  of  guilt.  Suddenly  he  cries  aloud,  "  You  also  are 
a  revolutionist ;  you  have  bent  and  broken  the  laws,  while  you 
believed  yourself  warranted  thereto.  You  have  shaken  the  rock 
of  order,  now  it  descends  crushingly  on  you.  It  will  go  through 
the  garrison  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  best  that  they  will 
say  will  be,  '  It  is  a  pity  about  Hanenstein,  that  he  is  to  be 
cashiered.  He  was  a  good  soldier,  and  had  every  expectation 
of  coming  into  the  staff.  But  certainly  his  sympathies  were 
with  the  revolutionists.'  " 


CHAPTER    III  : 

|T  the  same  hour  as  Hanenstein  sat  in  his  cell,  there 
was  joy  in  the  house  of  the  governor,  for  the  morn 
ing  after   a  successful  entertainment   has  always  a 
peculiar  pleasure,   and,  through  the  numerous    and 
well-trained  domestics,  there  were  in  the  sitting-rooms  no  trace 
of  the  festivities  of  the  preceding  night. 

The  breakfast-room  was  pretty,  and  showed  the  taste  of  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  In  a  low  grate  a  fire  burned  brightly, 
and  on  the  table  stood  two  pale-green  vases  of  Venetian  glass 
filled  with  flowers  left  from  the  day  before. 

When  the  father  had  entered  and  heartily  greeted  Gabriele, 
she  said,  "  You  also  must  be  happy  in  thinking  how  smoothly 
and  delightfully  the  evening  passed.  I  believe  the  people  who 
said  to  us  that  they  had  spent  happy  hours.  But  why  do  you 
look  so  severe  about  it?  " 


340  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  I  think  you  ought,  however,  to  have  said  to  me  that  you 
were  to  dance  the  cotillon  with  Lieutenant  Hanenstein.  It  sur 
prised  me,  and,  in  my  opinion,  many  others  also.  Why  did 
you  do  so  ?  " 

"Why?  He  is  the  best  dancer  in  the  garrison,  and  you 
think  a  great  deal  of  him,  too.  You  have  often  told  me  what  a 
good  comrade  his  father  was." 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  very  fine,  and  there  is  nothing  improper  in 
it;  but,  as  I  said,  it  surprised  me." 

"  Surprised  you?  " 

"  Yes.  You  are  my  good  and  clever  child,  and  I  am  no 
tyrant  father.  I  will  only  say  to  you  :  You  are  now  entering 
the  great  world,  and  it  would  be  painful  to  me  if  you  were  to 
engage  yourself  in  anything  that  you  might  regret  afterwards. 
I  would  wish  that  no  thought  from  you  was  turned  towards 
another;  that  your  whole  soul  maybe  given  to  him  to  whom 
you  will  one  day  listen.  I  would  also  wish  that  you,  before 
you  have  learned  to  know  the  world  and  the  world  knows  you, 
should  give  no  one  a  hope.  Under  this  '  no  one,'  my  child  — 
pay  attention  —  under  this  '  no  one '  I  include  yourself.  You 
comprehend  this?" 

Gabriele  nodded  silently,  and  the  governor  needed  no  other 
answer.  He  knew  how  truly  his  child  perceived  his  meaning. 

The  waiter  brought,  on  a  salver,  several  letters.  The  gover 
nor  took  one  from  among  them  and  said,  — 

"  That  is  from  Aunt  Truben.      It  is  for  you,  Gabriele." 

He  handed  the  letter  over  to  her.  Gabriele  opened  it  and 
read,  while  her  father  looked  through  those  directed  to  him. 
He  laid  the  letters  back  and  asked,  — 

"What  does  your  aunt  write?     Tell  me  only  the  substance." 

"  She  writes,"  said  Gabriele  :    "  '  The  princess  is  much  pleased 


ON     GUARD.  341 

"with  your  photograph ;  she  thinks  you  much  resemble  your 
blessed  mother.  She  would,  in  addition,  wish  to  read  a  letter 
from  you,  in  order  to  have  a  photograph  of  your  mind.  I,  how 
ever,  have  none  that  I  can  show  her.  Write  ostensibly  to  me, 
but  let  your  letter  contain  nothing  that  will  be  unsuitable  for 
the  princess.'  What  shall  I  write?  "  asked  Gabriele. 

"Describe  last  evening's  ball.  Only  write  quite  naturally; 
that  is  always  the  best." 

While  the  governor  lighted  a  cigar,  an  orderly  was  an 
nounced. 

"  Let  him  come  in." 

Gabriele  went  away  quickly. 

A  young  ensign  -entered  and  related  what  had  happened. 

"  How  is  that  possible  ?  "  cried  the  governor,  half  to  himself. 
'"How  could  he  do  that?  The  affair  was  indeed  not  at  all 
in  his  jurisdiction." 

The  ensign  was  very  careful  what  to  answer,  for  fear  he 
should  be  ordered  away;  and  now  the  governor  turned  to  him 
•and  3aid,  — 

"  Good.  Go.  Answer,  I  shall  come  myself.  He  is  already 
in  arrest?  " 

"  At  your  command." 

The  ensign  went,  thereupon,  and  the  governor  ordered  them 
to  saddle  his  horse. 

He  did  not  consider  long  whether  he  should  tell  Gabriele. 
He  had  her  called,  and  said, — 

"  The  First  Lieutenant  von  Hanenstein  has  broken  the  laws 
of  the  service  in  the  most  flagrant  way.  He  is  to  come  before 
•a  court-martial."  He  stopped. 

Gabriele  did  not  hesitate  ;    she  asked,  with  a  steady  voice,  — 

•"  What  has  he  done?  " 


342  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

The  governor  related  it  shortly,  and  added,  — 
"  He  will  be  condemned  to  death,  but  he  will  not  be  shot." 
"  Then  that  is  what  he  had  before  him,  and  that  is  why  he 
was  so  sad,"  cried  she ;  "  and  how  could  he  say  that  I  could  not 
help  in  the  least?     I  could  have  stopped  him ;  he  ought  to  have 
told  me.      How  could  he  destroy  our  lives  so  wantonly,  so  use 
lessly?  " 

•     The  governor  would  have  said,  "  I  fear  my  warning  cornea 
already  too  late."     But  he  suppressed  it,  and  only  said, — 

"  It  is  well,  Gabriele,  that  I  alone  hear  that;   and  I  hope  that 
I  must  hear  nothing  more  of  the  kind  from  you.     Calm  yourself 
with  the  thought  that  you  are  still  saved  in  time  from  an  error." 
"  But  you  also  have  loved  him  —  protect  him  !  " 
"I  do  not  deny  it;   but  now  he  is  lost!     A  pity !      It  is   a 
blessing  that  his  father  is  no  longer  living !     'Oh,  the  world,  the 
world,  youth !  " 

The  governor  rode  alone  to  the  citadel.  As  he  was  riding  up 
the  hill,  he  saw  a  man  panting  and  coming  towards  him,  motion 
ing  with  his  hands.  He  stopped,  and  the  man,  with  agitated 
countenance,  cried,  — 

"  Oh,  what  a  happy  thing  that  I  should  meet  you  !  " 
It  was  the  liberated  one.  He  related  that  Hanenstein  had 
given  him  his  freedom ;  that  he  had  promised  to  come  back 
before  the  patrol  was  made,  but  that  he  could  not  help  stop 
ping —  for  when  he  reached  home,  his  wife  lay  in  a  deep  sleep; 
she  had  not  shut  an  eye  for  three  days  —  she  had  been  calling 
for  him  instead.  He  sat  on  her  bed  ;  hour  after  hour  passed  by ; 
he  wanted  to  go  away,  to  keep  his  word,  but  he  could  not  leave.. 
The  sick  one  awoke  and  died  in  his  arms.  He  prayed  earnestly 
that  they  might  not  make  the  lieutenant  suffer  because  he  had 
]et  the  heart  under  his  uniform  speak. 


ON     GUARD.  343 

The  governor  only  said, — 

"  It  is  well.     You  must  explain  yourself  to  all  the  authorities." 

He  turned  and  considered  whether  he  should  tell  Gabriele 
that  the  man  had  returned  voluntarily.  To  communicate  this  to 
Gabriele  would  be  like  an  encouragement.  Better  is  it,  there 
fore,  that  she  should  suffer;  then,  in  her  pain,  she  will  tear  him 
completely  out  of  her  soul,  and  Hanenstein  will  suffer  for  the 
rest  of  his  life. 

The  governor  rode  home  and  asked  for  his  daughter.  They 
said  she  had  driven  out. 

"Whither?" 

The  village  was  named  in  which  the  family  of  the  lawyer's 
clerk  lived.  The  horse  was  again  saddled,  the  governor  rode 
to  his  daughter,  and  met  her  in  the  house  of  grief  with  the 
daughter  of  the  prisoner.  Gabriele  came  towards  him  and 
cried,  — 

"  The  man  has  kept  his  word,  and  our  friend  will  be  free." 

The  governor  seated  himself  by  Gabriele  in  the  carriage  and 
said, — 

"  How  could  you,  as  my  diughter,  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to 
come  hither?  " 

"  O  father,  frankly,  because  I  have  the  happiness  of  having 
you  for  my  father !  Because  we  are  in  this  high  position,  it  is 
our  duty  to  support  and  guide  the  erring !  " 

The  governor  looked  with  astonishment  at  his  child ;  she 
^seemed  in  this  one  day  to  have  matured  to  a  new  life. 

When  they  reached  home,  Gabriele  locked  herself  in  her 
chamber,  and  wrote  the  whole  day  and  nearly  the  whole  night. 

It  was  in  the  evening.  In  the  royal  castle  they  were  sitting 
at  tea. 

The  princess  said,  — 


344  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

"  Dear  Countess  Truben,  have  you  still  no  letter  from  your 
niece?  " 

"  Certainly  I  have." 

She  handed  over  Gabriele's  letter,  and  the  princess  said, — 

"  That  is  very  long.     Will  you  not  read  it  to  us?  " 

And  the  countess  read  her  niece's  interesting  letter  of  the 
death  of  the  young  Pole  and  the  return  of  the  lawyer's  clerk, 
and,  without  design,  Hanenstein  stood  forth  in  full  brightness. 
Besides  the  description  of  the  family  and  the  house,  the  narra 
tion  of  how  the  prisoner  tore  himself  away  from  tht  dead  body 
was  deeply  moving. 

One  place  in  the  letter  must,  however,  be  read  twice  over. 
She  read :  "  I  have  seen  an  entirely  strange  world.  There 
are  people  of  another  religion  —  they  call  it  political  freedom  ; 
and  they  are  ready  for  any  martyrdom.  Are  not  love  and  tol 
eration  also  needed  ?  They  have  the  strongest  faith  in  their  re 
ligion.  As  I  stood  by  the  girl,  whose  father  is  in  prison,  while 
the  mother  lay  dead  — '  Oh,  there,'  I  cried,  '  from  God  cometh 
the  favor,  enabling  those  who  sit  on  the  thione  here  to  pardon 
and  dispense  grace  !  ' 

A  few  days  after  that,  a  letter  of  pardon  came.  The  lawyer's, 
clerk  was  set  free ;  he  emigrated  with  his  daughter. 

Hanenstein  must  expiate  a  longer  probation.  He  first  suc 
ceeded,  at  the  storming  of  the  Diippeler  Schauzen,  in  obtaining 
with  joy  his  full  military  position  again. 

The  truth  of  the  beloved  one  proved  itself  victorious  over  all 
hindrances  and  opposition.  In  the  letter  to  his  comrades 
about  the  wedding,  it  was  said,  — 

"  She  has  to  you  and  to  me  done  many  good  and  beautiful 
things.  May  hers  be  the  joy  of  continuing  to  do  good  and 
beautiful  things  through  a  long  life." 


MUSCADINES. 


345 


MUSCADINES. 


(A   VISION   IN    THE    WOODS.} 
BY   PAUL   HAYNE. 

•  OBER  September,  robed  in  grey  and  dun, 
Smiled  from  the  forest  in  half-pensive  wise; 
A  misty  sweetness  shone  in  her  wild  eyes, 
And    o'er  her  cheek  a  shy  flush  went  and 

came, 

As  flashing  warm  between 
The  autumnal  leaves  of  slowly  dying  green, 

The  sovereign  sun 

Did  gently  kiss  her ;  then  (in  ruthful  mood 
For  the  vague  fears  of  modest  maidenhood^ 
As  gently  and  as  lovingly  retire, 
Behind  the  foliaged  screen, 
Veiling  his  swift  desire — 
Even  as  a  king,  wed  to  some  virgin  queen, 
Might  doom  his  sight  to  blissful,  brief  eclipse, 

After  his  tender  lips 
Had  touched  the  maiden's  trembling  soul  to  flame. 

Through  shine  and  shade, 
Thoughtful,  I  trod  the  tranquil  forest  glade, 

Upglancing  oft 
To  watch  the  rainless  cloudlets,  white  and  soft, 

347 


348  PAPYRUS      LEAVES.      . 

Sail  o'er  the  placid  ocean  of  the  sky. 
The  breeze  was  like  a  sleeping  infant's  sigh, 
Measured  and  low,  or,  in  quick  palpitant  thrills, 
An  instant  swept  the  sylvan  depths  apart 

To  pass,  and  die 
Far  off,  far  off,  within  the  shrouded  heart 

Of  immemorial  hills. 

Through  shade  and  shine 
I  wandered,  as  one  wanders  in  a  dream, 
Till  near  the  borders  of  a  beauteous  stream, 

O'erhung  by  flower  and  vine, 
I  pushed  the  dense,  perplexing  boughs  aside, 

To  mark  the  temperate  tide 
Purpled  by  shadows  of  the  Muscadine. 

Reclining  there,  at  languid  length  I  sank, 
One  idle  hand  outstretched  beyond  the  bank, 

With  careless  grasp 

The  sumptuous  globes  of  those  rare  grapes  to  clasp  ; 
Ah !  how  the  ripened  wild  fruit  of  the  South 

Melted  upon  my  mouth  ! 
Its  magic  juices  through  each  captured  vein 

Rose  to  the  yielding  brain, 
Till,  like  the  hero  of  an  old  romance 
Caught  by  the  fays,  my  spirit  lapsed  away, 
Lost  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  mortal  day. 

Lost  to  all  earthly  sounds  and  sights  was  I  ; 

But  blithesomely, 

As  stirred  by  some  new  being's  wonderous  dawn, 
I  heard  about  me,  swift,  yet  gently  dawn, 


MUSCADINES.  349. 

The  footsteps  of  light  creatures  on  the  grass. 
Mine  eyelids  seemed  to  open,  and  I  saw, 

With  joyance  checked  by  awe, 

A  multitudinous  company 
Of  such  strange  forms  and  faces,  quaint,  or  bright 

With  true  Elysian  light, 
As  once,  in  fairy  fantasies  of  eld, 
High-hearted  poets  through  the  wilds  beheld 
Of  shadowy  dales  and  lone  sea-beaches  pass 
At  spring-tide  morn  or  holy  hush  of  night. 

Then  to  an  airy  measure, 

Low  as  the  sea  winds  when  the  night  at  noon 
Clasps  the  frail  beauty  of  an  April  moon, 
Through  woven  paces,  at  soft-circling  leisure, 
They  glided  with  elusive  grace  adown 
The  forest  coverts — all  live  woodland  things, 

Black-eyed  or  brown, 

Firm-footed,  or  uppoised  on  changeful  wings, 
Glinting  about  them,  'mid  the  indolent  motion 

Of  billowy  verdures  rippling  slow. 

As  the  long  languid  underflow 

o  o 

Of  some  star-tranced,  voluptuous  Southern  ocean 


The  circle  widened,  and  as  flower-wrought  bands, 

Stretched  by  incautious  hands, 
Break  in  the  midst  with  noiseless  wrench  asunder, 
So  break  the  dancers  now,  to  form  in  line 
Down  the  deep  glade  ;  above,  the  shifting  lights 
Through  massive  tree-boles  on  majestic  heights — 


350  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

The  blossomed  turf  thereunder — 

Whence,  fair  and  fine, 
Twinkling  like  stars  that  hasten  to  be  drawn 

Close  to  the  breast  of  dawn 
Shone,  with  their  blue  veins  pulsing  fleet, 

Innumerable  feet, 

White  as  the  splendors  of  the  Milky  Way, 
Yet  rosy  warm  as  opening  tropic  day, 
With  lithe  free  limbs  of  curvature  divine, 
And  dazzling  bosoms  of  unveiled  glow, 
Save  where  the  long  ethereal  tresses  stray 
Across  their  unimaginable  snow. 

One  after  one, 

By  sun-rays  kissed  or  fugitive  shades  o'errun, 
All  vision-like  they  passed  me.     First  there  came 
A  Dryad  coy,  her  sweet  head  bowed  in  shame, 
And  o'er  neck  and  half-averted  face 

The  faintest  delicate  trace 
Of  the  charmed  life-blood  pulsing  softly  pure. 

Next,  with  bold  footsteps,  sure 
And  firm  as  bases  of  her  own  proud  hills, 
Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  upon  her  lofty  head 
A  fragrant  crown  of  leaves,  purple  and  red, 
Chanting  a  lay  clear  as  the  mountain  rills, 
A  frank-faced  Oxead  turned  on  me 
Her  fearless  glances,  laughter-lit,  and  free 
As  the  large  gestures  and  the  liberal  air 

With  which  I  viewed  her  fare 

Down  the  lone  valley  land, 
Pausing  betimes  to  wave  her  happy  hand 


MUSCADINES.  351 

As  in  farewell ;    but  ere  her  presence  died 

Wholly  away, 
Her  voice  of  golden  swell 
Did  also  breathe  farewell. 
Farewell,  farewell ;  the  sylvan  echoes  sighed, 
From  rock-bound  summit  to  rich-blossoming  bay — 
Farewell,  farewell ! 

Fauns,  Satyrs,  flitted  past  me — the  whole  race 

Of  woodland  births  uncouth — 

Until  I  seemed,  in  sooth, 

Far  from  the  garish  track 

Of  these  loud  days  to  have  wandered,  joyful,  back 
Along  the  paths,  beneath  the  crystal  sky, 

Of  long,  long  perished  Arcady. 

But  las-t  of  all;  filling  the  haunted  space 
With  odors  of  the  flower-enamored  tide, 
Whose  wavelets  love  through  many  a  secret  place 
Of  the  deep  dell  and  breezeless  bosk  to  glide, 

Stole  by,  lightsome  and  slim 
As  Dian's  self  in  each  soft  sinuous  limb, 
Her  arms  outstretched,  as  if  in  act  to  swim 
The  air,  as  erst  the  waters  of  her  home, 
A  Naiad,  sparkling  as  the  flcckless  foam 
Or  the  cool  fountain-head  whereby  she  dwells. 

O'er  her  sloped  shoulders  and  the  pure  pink  bud 
Of  either  virginal  breast  is  richly  rolled 

(O  rare,  miraculous  flood  !) 
The  torrent  of  her  freed  locks'  shimmering  gold, 


352  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

Through  which  the  gleams  of  rainbow-colored  shells 
And  pearls  of  noonlike  radiance  flash  and  float 
Round  her  immaculate  throat. 

Clothed  in  her  beauty  only,  wandered  she, 
'Mid  the  moist  herbage,  to  the  streamlet's  edge, 
Where,  girt  by  silvery  rushes  and  brown  sedge, 
She  faded  slowly,  slowly,  as  a  star  * 

Fades  in  the  gloaming — on  the  bosom  bowed 

Of  some  half-luminous  cloud 
Above  the  wan  waste  waters  of  the  sea. 

'Then,  sense  and  spirit  fading  inward  too, 
I  slept  oblivious;  through  the  dim  dumb  hours, 
Safely  encouched  on  autumn  leaves  and  flowers, 
I  slept  as  sleep  the  unperturbed  dead. 
At  length  the  wind  of  evening,  keenly  chill, 

Swept  round  the  darkening  hill ; 

There  throbbed  the  rush  of  hurried  wings  o'erhead, 
Blent  with  aerial  murmurs  of  the  pine, 
Just  whispering  twilight.     On  my  brow  the  dew 
Dropped  softly;  and  I  woke  to  all  the  low 
Strange  sounds  of  twilight  woods  that  come  and  go 
So  fitfully;  and  o'er  the  sun's  decline, 
Through  the  green  mist  of  foliage  flickering  high, 

Beheld,  with  dreamy  eye, 
Sweet  Venus  glittering  in  the  stainless  blue. 


Thus  the  day  closed  whereon  I  drank  the  wine — 
The  liquid  magic  of  the  Muscadine. 


HOW  ONE  MAN  WAS  SAVED. 


358 


BY    AM  AND  AM.     DOUGLASS. 


I. 

But  love  is  indestructible. — Sonthey. 

E  walked  slowly  along  that  dusty  highway,  Mark 
Bradley,  revolving  many  thoughts  in  his  busy 
brain.  A  summer  afternoon  melting  gradually 
into  evening,  a  sun  sinking  behind  the  hill-tops, 
burnishing  the  spires  with  molten  gold.  In  the 
still  atmosphere  those  trees  were  outlined  against 
the  crimson  dappled  sky  with  wonderful  distinctness.  Not  a 
leaf  stirred.  Down  the  sloping  sides  wide  stubble-fields  took 
on  a  new  glory.  Here  acres  of  grass,  early  mown,  nodding  a 
serene  satisfaction  over  the  comforting  idea  of  a  second  crop. 
Cornfields  turned  yellow,  the  browned  and  faded  tassels  hanging 
listlessly  on  ripening  stalks.  A  sort  of  lazy,  over-ripe  August 
picture. 

Had  it  been  never  so  beautiful  he  would  not  have  paused  to 
study  it.  He  had  other  matters  on  hand.  What  was  the  paltry 
landscape  to  him?  He  could  not  make  money  out  of  it,  and 
that  was  his  whole  thought  by  day  and  night.  How  many 
times  he  had  walked  over  this  road,  dreaming  of  what  awaited 
him  at  the  end,  hurried  on  with  a  buoyant  step  and  hopeful 
heart.  Now  he  lagged  unconsciously,  and  when  he  came  in 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

sight  of  the  gray  cottages  down  yonder  among  the  trees,  he 
almost  paused. 

"  She  must  know  some  time,"  he  said,  and  this  thought  urged 
him  on. 

The  road  began  to  wind  downward.  It  grew  shadier,  and 
fragrant  with  spice  of  fir  and  pine.  Here  and  there  some  wild 
asters  starred  it,  or  a  spray  of  golden  rod.  Common  things, 
all.  Dusty  and  dull.  They  fretted  him  strangely.  How 
many  times  he  had  found  this  road  lovely  to  look  upon  — 
the  end  delightful.  He  seemed  to  have  outgrown  it  all  at  a 
bound. 

Before  he  reached  the  cottage  there  was  a  little  flutter  at  the 
door.  A  white  dress,  and  the  flash  of  a  scarlet  ribbon  at  the 
throat.  A  gleam  of  soft  brown  hair,  just  as  the  last  reflection 
of  sunset  through  the  trees  took  it,  and  played  about  like  an 
aureole. 

She  came  to  meet  him,  this  little  Janet  Raeburn.  An  hour 
ago  her  face  was  worn  and  gray ;  every  limb  tired  and  over 
strained,  working  at  her  machine.  She  had  sighed  wearily 
over  the  last  long  seam,  shut  down  the  cover  with  an  impatient 
»nap,  hurried  around  with  the  supper  things,  and  found  at  last 
a  few  brief  moments  in  which  to  wash  her  face,  comb  out  her 
brown  hair,  and  change  her  dress.  It  had  transformed  her,  or 
else  the  hope  that  brightened  her  cheeks ;  for  now,  coming 
out  to  meet  her  lover,  she  looked  really  pretty. 

He  scanned  her  face  earnestly.  A  broad,  low  forehead, 
small,  but  irregular,  features,  a  mouth  compressed  by  emotions 
or  trials  to  a  firmness  and  reticence  rarely  seen  in  two-and- 
twenty.  He  fancied,  and  perhaps  rightly  enough,  that  she  wa= 
growing  old  and  worn.  He  was  in  a  mood  to  note  these  things, 
so  she  had  put  on  her  smiles  and  brightness  in  vain 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS     SAVED.  357 

He  took  the  little  hands  in  his  and  kissed  her.  Then  he 
'held  her  quiet  for  a  moment  and  sighed. 

"What  is  it,  Mark?  " 

She  had  a  low,  smooth,  cool  voice.  One  pleasant  to  hear  in 
a  sick  room,  or  at  any  time  of  great  trial.  As  if  one  would 
like  to  hear  her  pronounce  a  benediction  over  this  dying  sum 
mer  day. 

"  Let  us  walk  out  here.  I  am  stifled  all  day  with  that  hot, 
smothering  air  in  the  shop  !  It  almost  makes  me  hate  to  enter 
-a  house." 

She  was  a  trifle  surprised  at  his  vehement  tone. 

They  took  the  edge  of  the  soft,  short  grass,  as  it  was  too 
•early  yet  for  dew,  down  as  far  as  the  great  sycamore  tree  — 
back  again,  and  all  in  silence. 

Janet  studied  his  face  furtively.  It  was  gloomy  and  impene 
trable.  Of  late  he  had  been  unlike  himself.  She  tried  to  make 
him  talk ;  but  at  first  he  responded  only  in  monosyllables.  And 
then  she  returned  to  the  old  query,  — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mark?  " 

"  Sit  down  here,"  and  he  paused  at  a  great  stone  by  the  road 
side,  "  for  I  have  much  to  tell  you,  Janet." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  I  am  going  away." 

A  woman  would  have  skirmished  about  this  fact,  and  broken 
it  by  degrees,  to  make  the  suffering  less  for  the  listener.  He, 
being  a  man,  went  straight  to  the  point  at  once. 

She  studied  him  with  her  brown  eyes.  There  was  something 
in  the  fearless  scrutiny  that  made  him  wince. 

"Why?"  She  could  not  trust  herself  to  any  longer  sen 
tence,  for  the  blow  seemed  to  have  struck  some  vital  part. 

•"  I'll  tell  you  why.      I've  been   a  fool  for  weeks   and  weeks. 


358  PAPYRUS       LEAVES. 

I've  beat  about  the  bush  and  staved  off  the  truth,  when  I  ought 
to  have  spoken.  I  am  tired  and  sick  of  this  dragging  life. 
The  same,  month  in  and  month  out.  If  a  man  was  a  stick  or 
stone  he  might  be  satisfied  to  go  on  the  treadmill  round.  But 
I  am  not.  Life  isn't  endurable  on  such  terms  !  " 

His  enunciation  was  rapid,  his  voice  hoarse  with  dull  passion. 

"  I  thought  you  had  a  good  situation,  Mark?  " 

"  Good  enough,  I  suppose,  as  the  matter  goes ;  but  I'm  tired 
of  drudgery.  A  man  just  keeps  soul  and  body  together.  If 
one  saves  up  a  few  dollars,  the  machinery's  out  of  gear,  and  all. 
hands  off  for  a  week  or  two.  Or  orders  don't  come  in.  Some 
thing  continually  to  drain  a  man  of  his  last  cent.  So  there's, 
nothing  ahead,  nothing  between  one  and  starvation,  if  an  un 
lucky  stroke  should  befall  him.  It  frets  me  to  death  !  " 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you  what  I  can  do,  some  day.  I  mean  to  be  a 
rich  man,  Janet,"  and  he  brought  his  clenched  fist  down  on  the 
rock  with  a  force  that  numbed  his  fingers. 

"  O  Mark,"  she  said,  with  a  little  cry.  "  wealth  doesn't, 
always  bring  happiness." 

"  Don't  take  up  that  cant ;  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  it.  I'd  risk 
wealth  bringing  me  happiness.  All  I  want  in  this  world  is, 
money.  With  that  will  come  everything  else.  And  why  have 
not  I  as  good  right  to  it  as  any  other  person  ?  When  I  see 
these  men  riding  around  in  their  carriages,  dressed  in  broad 
cloth  and  fine  linen,  giving  sumptuous  dinners,  their  houses, 
perfect  palaces  of  elegance,  I  am  filled  with  envy.  Why,  their 
very  servants  have  an  easier  life  than  mine  !  " 

"  I  believe  God  gives  us  what  is  best."  She  spoke  slowly, 
but  in  a  steady  tone. 

"  No,  you  cant  think  it,  Janet.    The  clergymen  preach  about 


HOW     ONE      MAN     WAS     SAVED.  359 

it  on  Sundays,  and  some  weak,  deluded  people  hug  a  sort  of 
martyr  belief  to  their  hearts  and  glory  in  it.  As  if  for  every 
•  evil  here,  every  misfortune,  every  loss,  some  great  gain  was  to 
be  met  with  in  that  other  and  fabulous  country." 

A  bitter,  bitter  fear  smote  Janet  Raeburn's  heart.  How  many 
times  she  had  trembled  at  the  half  knowledge  that  this  man 
affected  to  sneer  at  a  Supreme  Ruler. 

"  You  can't  think  it,"  he  went  on  with  more  vehemence.  "  Is 
it  right  that  you,  a  weak  and  frail  woman,  should  have  the 
care  of  a  bedridden  mother  and  a  feeble  old  father  who  is  as 
much  charge  as  a  child  ?  There  is  your  brother  and  his  wife 
taking  their  pick  of  everything,  making  money,  scrimping  and 
squeezing  until  the  very  stones  cry  out.  See  how  they  are 
prospered  while  you  are  working  yourself  to  death  !  Is  there 
any  justice  in  that?  Is  God  pleased  to  see  you  tired  and  worn, 
and  worried,  here  in  your  youth,  when  everything  should  be 
bright  and  restful?  No,  I  don't  believe  it.  Here's  the  world 
and  here's  the  struggle.  Strong  souls  win,  and  I  mean  to  dare 
it.'' 

In  the  earlier  days  of  their  acquaintance  she  used  to  argue. 
More  than  once  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  almost  persuaded  him. 
But  he  had  always  gone  back  to  his  old  skepticism ;  so  she  had 
trusted  to  the  future  day  of  love.  Would  it  ever  come?  F~or 
now  she  felt  tired  and  faint-hearted.  She,  with  her  woman's 
-eyes  saw  how  he  could  have  lightened  her  burdens ;  but  she 
would  sooner  die  than  thrust  them  upon  him. 

"  So  I  am  going  away.  I've  had  it  planned  for  several  weeks, 
and  been  putting  off  the  announcement  in  a  cowardly  fashion. 
I  knew  how  the  separation  would  hurt  you.  If  it  could  be,  I'd 
take  you  with  me.  God  knows  I  shall  miss  you  sorely.  But 
I'm  bound  to  get  above  this  stagnant  level.  I'll  have  enough  to 


360  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

- 

satisfy  my  wants  without  grovelling   like  a   dog  from  Monday 
morn  until  Saturday  night." 

"  What  will  you  do?  "      How  curiously  calm    her  voice  was. 

"  I've  some  brains  and  a  tolerable  education.  There's  a  friend 
of  mine  in  New  York  who  has  made  a  good  deal  of  money  one 
way  and  another.  He  was  in  town  a  month  ago,  and  wanted 
me  to  join  him  in  some  ventures.  It's  just  the  life  I  should  like 
—  hurry,  excitement,  something  for  your  pains.  I've  saved  up  a 
little,  and  I  mean  to  double  it,  quadruple  it,  make  a  fortune  in, 
short." 

"  And  then  —  ?  " 

"  I'll  come  back  for  you." 

She  stood  up  straight  and  firm  before  him.  The  twilight  was. 
falling  now,  and  making  purple  shadows  at  the  edges  of  the 
trees.  Her  white  dress  looked  almost  ghostly,  but  her  eyes, 
were  unnaturally  bright. 

"  No,  Mark,"  she  said,  "  you  will  not  come  back  for  me  then. 
You  think  so  now, —  I'll  do  you  that  justice  ;  but  in  the  new  life, 
when  wealth  and  station  and  refinement  are  yours,  I  should  be  an 
unsightly  blot,  mar  the  picture  with  my  plainness,  my  worn  face, 
my  tired  heart.  You  will  need  youth,  and  grace,  and  beauty." 

"  Do  you  doubt  me  —  my  truth,  my  honor  ?  " 

He  rose  too,  then,  and  folded  his  arms  across  his  broad  chest. 
How  proud  she  had  been  of  him  !  How  many  times  she  had 
nestled  to  that  bosom,  been  folded  in  those  arms !  Forgive  her 
if  she  had  longed  for  the  time  when  it  would  be  her  home,  her 
shelter.  She  felt  so  utterly  lost  and  forlorn  without  him,  and 
yet  he  seemed  to  be  drifting  rapidly  away  from  her.  She  could 
make  no  answer. 

"The  old,  stale  romance, ''  he  said,  with  a  little  sneer.  "You 
don't  give  me  much  credit  in  fancying  it." 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS      SAVED.  361 

"  I  shall  not  be  fit  for  you  then."  Her  voice  was  lo-v  and 
sad. 

He  walked  up  and  down  past  her.  He  hated  to  have  her 
doubt  him,  for  he  was  so  confident  of  his  own  strength. 

"  No,"  he  went  on,  "  I  want  you  to  believe,  whatever  comes, 
that  no  woman  can  ever  fill  your  place  to  me.  I  shall  not  be 
so  weak  after  my  struggle  as  to  long  for  the  youth  and  beauty 
that  can  be  purchased  with  gold.  And  for  your  sake  I  want  to 
be  rich.  To  marry  as  men  do  on  precarious  wages,  and  rear  a 
family  that  may  be  doomed  to  beggary  by  another's  whim,  is 
v/hat  I  could  never  do.  And  to  go  on  waiting  year  after  year 
in  this  fashion  —  '' 

Something  roused  her  strangely.  A  fire  flashed  into  the  eyes 
and  the  pale  cheeks. 

"  And  I  want  you  to  believe,"  she  said,  in  a  strong,  clear  tone. 
"  that  poverty  has  no  terrors  for  me,  —  that  work  is  no  hardship, 
It  was  my  birthright.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  distrust  any  life  that 
was  easy  and  luxurious." 

He  laughed,  a  trifle  scornfully. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  when  I  come  back  a  rich  man,  reject  me 
if  you  will,  but  now  do  not  refuse  me  your  love.  Some  of  your 
true  believers  pretend  to  look  upon  woman's  love  as  a  sort  of 
safeguard  in  an  evil  hour.  So  don't  deprive  me  of  this 
strength." 

His  words  cut  deeply  into  her  heart,  but,  for  all  that,  she 
came  to  him,  leaned  her  throbbing  head  against  his  shoulder. 
He  could  not  see  the  tears  that  overflowed  her  eyes. 

They  both  paced  the  rapidly  darkening  path  in  silence 
Once,  as  they  neared  the  cottage,  she  said  :  — 

"  You  will  come  in?  " 

"  Not  to-night,  Janet.     I  must  go  back  immediately," 


362  PAPYRUS       LEAVES. 

"When  shall  you  leave?" 

"  Next  week.  Monday  is  pay-night.  It  will  be  a  relief  not 
to  drudge  at  the  old  toil  any  more." 

"  And  what  you  mean  to  do,  Mark,  is  perfectly  honest  and 
honorable  ?  " 

He  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Janet,"  he  said  presently,  "  the  world  isn't  as  you  think  it. 
These  overstrained  virtues  do  not  pay  in  a  great  city,  or  any 
where,  if  a  man  means  to  get  along.  This  high  theoretical 
honesty  sounds  well  enough  in  a  book  or  a  sermon  —  people 
are  paid  for  writing  and  preaching  it ;  but  it  never  made  the 
listeners  rich,  that  I  heard.  How  much  of  it  do  your  church- 
members  carry  into  business?  They're  sharp  enough,  Heaven 
knows !  " 

He  had  taunted  her  more  than  once,  lately,  in  this  manner. 
She  turned  now. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  the  treachery  of  Judas  was  ever  con 
sidered  a  better  deed  because  he  was  one  of  the  disciples,"  she 
said,  in  a  strong,  sad  tone,  almost  coming  to  tears. 

"  We  will  not  quarrel  when  there  is  a  prospect  of  a  long 
separation  before  us.  I  shall  be  out  on  Sunday  evening.  Good 
night  !  "  and  he  kissed  her  tenderly. 

She  stood  in  the  dusk  for  man}'  minutes  after  he  had  left  her, 
but  not  following  out  her  first  impulse,  which  was  to  weep. 
For  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  gird  herself  anew  now.  Down  the 
long  future  somewhere  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  for 
weeping. 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS     SAVED. 


II. 


ANET  RAEBURN  entered  the  cottage  at  length. 
Hastily  lighting  a  candle,  she  ran  up  to  her  room  and 
pulled  off  the  white  dress  she  had  put  on  with  so 
much  pride  an  hour  or  two  ago.  Then  she  arranged  her 
mother  comfortably  for  the  night,  roused  her  father  from  his 
nap  on  the  rude  settle,  and  sent  him  to  bed  as  if  he  had  been  a 
child.  After  being  sure  that  everything  was  safe,  she  retired 
once  more  to  the  room  where  she  had  dreamed  many  a  sweet 
young  dream.  Her  life  had  always  been  hard,  but  being  glori 
fied  these  two  years  by  Mark  Bradley's  love  had  made  it  seem 
at  times  positively  delightful.  She  had  thought  if  Mark  would 
marry  her,  and  come  there  to  live,  share  the  profits  of  the  farm 
with  her  brother  John  !  —  for  it  would  easily  afford  them  both 
employment.  She  had  ventured  to  hint  this  to  him. 

"  It  wouldn't  do,  Janet,"  he  said  ;  "  John  would  look  uponme 
as  an  interloper.  We  don't  like  each  other  any  too  well  now. 
He's  your  brother ;  but  I  must  say  he  and  his  wife  are  close- 
fisted,  grasping  people,  and  he's  bound  to  get  all  he  can  out  of 
the  farm.  It  would  be  more  sensible  for  you  to  marry  me  and 
go  away.  The  old  folks  are  as  much  his  parents  as  they  are 
yours,  and  it  is  as  much  his  place  to  do  for  them.  I  haven't 
much  of  a  start,  to  be  sure,  but  you  are  welcome  to  it.  We 
would  get  along  somehow." 

Leave  her  parents  to  the  care  of  Martha  Raeburn,  who 
regarded  every  moment  wasted  that  was  not  devoted  to  money- 
getting  !  No,  she  could  never  do  this.  They  were  young  and 
would  wait. 


364  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

And  yet  the  waiting  appeared  to  stretch  itself  out  indefi 
nitely. 

When  John  Raeburn  married;  he  had  built  a  cottage  quite  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  farm,  being  urged  to  the  step  by  Martha, 
who  had  said,  and  wisely,  they  would  be  better  friends  apart. 
They  worked  the  farm,  and  took  the  profits,  supplying  the  old 
people  so  scantily  that  Janet,  a  handy  little  seamstress,  bought 
a  machine  in  order  to  render  herself  more  independent  of  them. 
John  was  a  loud  and  dogmatic  talker,  and  whenever  Janet  tried 
to  appeal  to  brotherly  kindness,  he  invariably  fell  back  upon  the 
fact  that  he  and  Martha  slaved  from  morning  till  night  —  and 
what  did  they  have  but  a  living?  "  I  should  be  a  good  deal  the 
gainer  if  I  hired  a  farm  for  myself,"  he  said ;  but,  in  her  heart 
of  hearts,  Janet  believed  if  he  really  thought  so  he  would  do  it. 
Her  very  soul  revolted  at  his  meanness  and  selfishness. 

It  had  come  to  be  an  accepted  fact  between  the  lovers  that 
Janet's  duty  was  here  for  the  present.  And  since  Mark  Brad 
ley  had  been  smitten  with  this  fever  for  wealth  he  had  cared 
less  for  marriage.  Poor  Janet's  heart  died  within  her.  Was 
the  whole  world  going  mad  in  a  thirst  for  wealth? 

Janet  Raeburn  prayed  fervently  that  night,  She  had  a  sort  ol 
blind  faith,  if  you  will,  that  in  the  darkest  hour  God  would  not  let 
his  storms,overwhelm  her.  Some  way  it  would  come  out  right  in 
the  end.  But  the  waiting  was  so  long,  so  hard  !  She  had  been 
trying  to  solve  Mark's  doubts,  to  lead  him  to  the  same  belief 
that  stayed  her  soul  in  hours  of  trial.  But  even  here  she  had 
failed.  And  now  he  was  going  away ! 

There  seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  of  unfinished  work  in  the 
world.  Toil  left  off  before  fruition  was  reached,  thwarted  plans, 
people  getting  into  wrong  paths  for  want  of  some  friendly  hand 
to  guide  them  aright.  How  perplexing  it  all  was  ! 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS     SAVED.  365 

If  she  could  have  married  Mark  six  months  ago  !  John  was 
counting  on  his  father's  death,  impatient  for  a  division  of  the 
property.  She  could  see  how  this  would  simplify  matters,  and 
Mark  would  not  object  to  having  one  invalid  with  them.  There 
would  be  money  enough  to  start  him  in  some  business,  and  then 
the  restlessness,  the  sort  of  kicking  against  fate  that  embitters 
him  so,  would  be  over.  Now  and  then  this  thought  crept  into 
her  heart,  but  she  strove  to  banish  it.  It  tempted  her  cruelly 
this  night.  For,  if  Mark  went  away,  who  would  guide  him  in  a 
new  home? 

A  weak  man,  you  say?  Well,  the  most  of  us  are  weak.  Now 
and  then  a  temptation  touches  us  like  a  galvanic  shock,  reveal 
ing  the  vulnerable  spot.  We  thrust  it  out  of  sight,  but  there  in 
the  darkness  and  loneliness  it  does  not  heal  to  sound,  solid  flesh, 
although  we  tell  ourselves  it  will.  Blind  always,  until  we  turn 
into  the  narrow  path  where  God's  light  makes  it  a  new  day. 

In  some  intuitive  way  Janet  understood  this  weakness  of  her 
lover's.  He  was  not  a  mean  man  —  he  would  have  cut  off  his 
right  hand  sooner  than  stoop  to  the  petty  deeds  whereby  John 
Raeburn  managed  to  screw  another  dollar  out  of  the  estate. 
He  would  not  have  defrauded  his  employer  out  of  ten  minutes. 
Honesty  in  all  little  matters  was  ingrained  in  him.  But  he  had 
a  restless,  dissatisfied  nature ;  he  hated  to  be  one  of  the  plod 
ders  ;  he  smarted  under  the  airs  men  with  money  gave  them 
selves,  and  wanted  to  be  on  the  higher  social  plane  where  he 
would  not  have  them  to  endure. 

Janet  was  helpless,  and  could  only  pray.  Somehow,  God 
would  not  fail  to  bring  it  all  out  right.  Though  he  had  listened 
for  over  eighteen  hundred  years,  he  was  not  weary.  And 
believing  this,  she  fell  asleep. 

Friday,  Saturday,  and  then  Sunday.     What  long,  long  days 


366  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

they  were  !  Janet  performed  all  her  duties  with  a  silent  air  and 
grave  face.  Her  poor  old  mother  noticed  this.  But  not  until 
Monday  did  Janet  announce  the  separation  that  was  in  store  for 
her. 

Mrs.  Raeburn,  too,  had  accepted  the  fact  that  Janet  could  not 
marry.  Perhaps  the  most  bitter  trial  of  all  was  the  knowledge 
that  no  one  considered  it  specially  hard  for  her. 

"  He's  a  smart  young  fellow,  Janet,  and  I  think  it's  a  sensible 
move.  Now,  while  he  has  no  incumbrance,  he  can  live  cheaply 
and  go  anywhere  he  likes,  and  if  he  means  to  make  anything, 
it  is  best  for  him  to  attempt  it  while  he's  young  and  strong. 
Two  or  three  years  won't  seem  much  to  you  now." 

That  was  her  mother's  comfort.  Indeed,  she  wished  her  hus 
band  had  been  more  energetic  and  ambitious  in  his  young  days ; 
but  he  had  always  taken  life  too  easy. 

John  commended  the  plan  also,  and  proposed  he  and  Martha 
should  come  over  to  tea  at  Mark's  last  visit.  And  so  when 
Mark  found  he  had  suited  them  all  he  began  to  take  heart, 
though  he  had  told  himself  before,  that  it  was  a  mean  shame  to 
go  off  and  leave  Janet  to  struggle  alone. 

"  I'm  right  glad,"  Martha  said,  walking  home  with  her  hus 
band.  "  Janet  will  stay  contented  now.  If  she'd  married,  I 
don't  know  what  we  should  have  done,  for  I  couldn't  have  taken 
care  of  your  mother  and  father,  and  hiring  a  nurse  is  so  expen 
sive.  It  would  have  eaten  up  the  whole  estate." 

Somehow  John  and  Martha  Raeburn  seemed  to  have  an  im 
pression  that  these  old  people,  in  living  on,  wronged  them.  Not 
that  either  would  have  put  it  in  so  many  words,  but  Martha 
always  said  to  her  neighbors :  "  It's  so  hard  to  have  the  old 
folks  sick  and  helpless,"  as  if  it  increased  her  labors  and  cares. 

Janet  Raeburn  took  up  her  burden,  making  no  moan.     These 


HOW      ONE      MAN     WAS      SAVED.  367 

i 

evenings  with  Mark  had  been  such  an  indescribable  comfort  to 
her  —  the  only  bright  spots  in  her  life.  Heaven  only  knew  how 
hard  and  weary  it  was  for  the  girl.  The  whirr  of  the  machine 
sounded  pleasantly  to  her  at  last,  because  in  its  noise  she  could 
not  think.  So,  between  sewing,  nursing,  and  housework,  her 
days  went  on  slowly,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  know  they  were 
past.  Then,  Mark's  letters  were  a  solace ;  though  they  were 
often  brief. 

He  came  to  visit  her  the  next  summer.  He  had  been  success 
ful  beyond  his  anticipations.  He  had  improved  so  much  in  his 
bearing  and  manner ;  for,  instead  of  the  slow,  thoughtful  look, 
his  eyes  were  bright  and  keen,  his  air  brisk,  his  clothes  jaunty 
and  stylish,  and  the  whole  man  seemed  to  have  undergone  some 
potent  change. 

He  felt  how  hardly  the  twelve  months  had  used  Janet.  He 
knew  now  that  he  could  win  fairer  and  fresher  women,  with  hun 
dreds  where  she  would  have  but  a  penny.  And  in  a  discouraged 
mood,  one  day,  she  offered  him  his  freedom. 

I  think  it  would  have  been  a  temptation  to  any  man  situated 
as  he  was,  as  they  both  were.  And  I  am  glad  I  can  tell  you, 
in  spite  of  the  little  struggle,  his  love  for  her  had  the  true  ring. 

"  Janet,"  (his  voice  was  husky  with  emotion),  "  never  say  such 
a  thing  to  me  again.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  villain,  child?  To 
leave  you  in  this  loneliness,  in  this  toilsome  round,  with  no  hope 
to  count  on  —  no,  I  am  not  so  bitterly  cruel." 

She  came  to  his  arms  and  wept  some  happy  tears.  Thank 
God  that  she  had  something  to  remember  at  a  later  day. 

"  If  I  could  take  you  away  from  it  all,  and  see  you  growing 
bright  again  !  " 

"  Not  now,"    she.  said  softly,  willing  to  wait. 

That  winter  her  mother  died,  and  her  father  was  stricken  with 


368  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

paralysis.  John  and  Martha  moaned  over  the  hard  fate,  but 
offered  little  assistance.  Old  Mr.  Raeburn  was  really  less 
trouble  than  his  wife,  for  he  was  neither  querulous  nor  impatient, 
so  Janet's  burden  did  not  seem  any  heavier.  At  last  the  end 
came,  and  it  was  summer  again,  but  one  of  those  seasons  that 
fill  men's  hearts  with  dread,  for  a  pestilence  was  stalking  forth 
through  the  land. 

In  this  quiet  country  place  they  scarcely  dreaded  the  cholera. 
Even  in  the  town,  two  miles  beyond,  there  had  been  but  few 
sporadic  cases,  not  sufficient  to  drive  the  inhabitants  wild  with 
apprehension. 

"  Of  course,"  Martha  Raeburn  said,  walking  home  from  the 
funeral,  "  the  property'll  have  to  be  divided.  You'll  buy  out 
Janet's  part." 

"  The  old  house  isn't  worth  anything,"  John  mused.  "  I've 
worked  the  ground  up  pretty  well.  The  days  and  days  I've 
spent  over  it!  And  now  I  suppose  Janet  will  want  the  increased 
value.  It's  hard  when  a  man's  worked  so  !  If  it  hadn't  been 
/or  me,  the  farm  would  not  be  worth  half  what  it  is.  Father 
always  was  a  poor  manager." 

"  Let's  take  Janet  home  with  us.  It's  best  to  talk  the  matter 
over  with  her  before  that  Bradley  puts  her  up  to  anything.  He's 
mighty  fond  of  a  good  bargain." 

"  Yes,"  John  said.  So  Janet,  utterly  worn  out,  was  glad  of 
the  kindly  invitation. 

After  she  ate  her  supper  she  begged  them  to  excuse  her. 

"Don't  go  to  bed  yet,  Janet;  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk. 
There  are  some  things  we  may  as  well  settle  between  our 
selves." 

"  Not  to-night,  John,"  and  her  pale  lip  quivered. 

"  I  am   sure  you   can  sit   up  in  this   easy-chair,"    interposed 


il  O  W     ONE      MAN     WAS     SAVED.  369 

Martha.  "  I  often  drop  down  into  it,  and  it  rests  me  as  much 
as  going  to  bed." 

"  You're  very  kind,  but  I  can't  talk  to-night,  I'm  so  tired.  To 
morrow  must  do." 

Martha  ungraciously  attended  her  to  the  spare  room,  to  take 
off  the  best  pillows  and  remove  the  counterpane.  "  I've  such 
lots  of  work  to  do  that  I  have  to  be  careful,"  she  said  in  a  com 
plaining  tone ;  and  as  she  went  downstairs  she  grumbled  to 
John:  "  If  Mark  had  been  here  she  could  have  walked  up  and 
down  the  road  half  the  night  with  him  !  " 

"  I'll  take  her  first  thing  in  the  morning.  I  want  the  business 
settled  before  Bradley  can  come  on." 

Janet  cried  herself  to  sleep  in  five  minutes.  But  it  hardly 
seemed  as  many  more  before  some  one  burst  in  the.  room  with 
a  shriek. 

"  Janet !  for  Heaven's  sake  come  down.  I  believe  John's  been 
taken  with  the  cholera." 

Janet  Raeburn  groped  her  way  along  the  stairs  as  if  she  were 
half  blind.  The  old  clock  in  the  sitting-room  struck  three. 
The  candle  was  flaring  on  the  table,  and  in  the  chamber  beyond, 
John,  the  strong  man,  was  groaning  in  mortal  agony.  Janet  did 
all  she  could  in  a  wild,  dazed  way,  and  then  went  for  the  doctor. 
What  if  it  was  night?  —  she  was  not  afraid. 

At  noon  the  next  day  John  Raeburn  died.  Martha  was  in  a 
panic  of  the  wildest  terror.  She  blamed  Janet;  she  declared,  if 
old  Mr.  Raeburn  had  not  died  just  as  he  did,  all  would  have 
gone  well  with  John.  It  was  his  grief  and  his  overwork.  And 
now  she  was  to  be  left  destitute  and  alone,  for  she  knew  she 
could  only  hold  a  paltry  third  of  what  was  coming  to  her  hus 
band.  But  she  need  not  have  worried.  Two  days  from  the 
.burial  of  John  Raeburn,  they  "  carried  her  out  also." 


370  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

For  many  weeks  after  that  Janet  lay  as  if  in  a  dream.  Not 
conscious  of  pain  or  anxiety,  too  weak  even  to  have  a  wish,  and 
with  not  mind  enough  to  express  it,  even  if  she  had.  A  peace 
ful  rest  for  both  body  and  soul  was  that  low  fever.  But  she 
came  out  of  it  at  length,  and  began  to  think  about  herself  and 
one  other.  Good  Dr.  Miles  had  taken  her  home  in  the  begin 
ning  of  her  illness,  and  his  w?ife  cared  for  her  in  a  manner  quite 
new  to  the  forlorn  girl.  Yet  she  wondered  why  they  watched 
her  so,  and  why  they  gave  each  other  such  sorrowful  looks. 
Surely  she  was  getting  well.  If  Mark  would  only  write.  "  It  was 
three  months  since  she  had  heard  from  him.  She  had  written 
him  the  second  letter  in  answer  to  his,  detailing  her  father's 
death  and  that  of  John.  That  was  nearly  two  months  ago. 
And  so  she  told  Dr.  Miles  every  day  to  look  for  a  letter,  but  he 
always  came  back  empty-handed.  What  did  it  mean? 

"  I  know  Mark  too  well  to  think  he  would  be  false  to  me," 
she  said  proudly,  one  day. 

The  doctor  winced. 

"  What  is  it?  "  .she  began.  "  You  know  something.  He  is  not 
dead?  I  couldn't  bear  that,  after  all  the  rest." 

"  Better  a  hundred  times  if  he  was,  God  knows  !  "  Dr.  Miles 
said,  hoarsely. 

"What  can  be  worse?"  She  came  and  looked  into  his  face 
with  curious  calmness. 

"  There  are  worse  things,  child,  and  he's  done  one  of  'em.  He's. 
a  villain,  and  it's  good  you  found  it  out  so  soon." 

Janet  could  think  of  but  one  thing.  "  I  want  you  to  know, " 
she  said,  proudly,  "  that  more  than  a  year  ago  I  offered  him  back 
his  freedom.  He  was  so  bright  and  handsome,  and  life  looked  so 
fair  before  him,  while  I  was  always  in  a  black  shadow.  He. 
wouldn't  take  it,  but  I've  hardly  considered  it  an  engagement  since.'^ 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS     SAVED.  3/1 

"  I'm  glad  you're  a  little  weaned  off.  For,  Janet,  child,  he's  a 
felon  in  State  Prison." 

The  soft  eyes  dilated  with  incredulous  horror,  at  first.  The 
lip  quivered,  the  very  limbs  shook,  as  she  moaned  :  — 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  you  are  mistaken." 

He  took  a  paper  out  of  his  desk,  and  showed  her  the  para 
graph.  Five  years  in  State  Prison  !  The  room  whirled  round, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  dying.  Then  she  roused  herself, 
and  asked  what  he  did. 

"Embezzled  funds — no,  that  wasn't  it,  either.  He  took 
some  money  that  didn't  belong  to  him  to  speculate  with,  and 
the  thing  went  to  smash.  His  partner  ran  away,  but  then  he 
pleaded  guilty,  so  the  matter  was  clear  enough.  You're  young, 
Janet,  and  you're  coming  into  a  good  property;  so  forget  the 
scamp." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  without  another  word.  Dr.  Miles 
did  not  like  the  stony  calm  into  which  she  settled,  but  he  never 
had  the  heart  to  discuss  the  matter  again. 

The  Raeburn  farm  was  sold  in  two  parcels.  Little  did  John 
or  Martha  imagine  the  end,  while  they  were  toiling  so  relent 
lessly.  And  Janet  Raeburn  found  herself  mistress  of  seven 
thousand  dollars.  The  interest  would  support  her  in  the  simple 
fashion  in  which  she  chose  to  live. 

She  went  on  with  Dr.  Miles  for  a  year,  but  all  the  while  she 
was  slowly  working  out  a  plan  that  haunted  her,  day  and  night. 
And  then  she  left  them  for  some  cousins,  who  lived  in  the  State 
of  Delaware,  and  who  urged  her  to  make  them  a  visit.  She 
had  another  motive  in  view.  She  went  to  New  York,  and, 
sought  out  the  man  Mark  Bradley  had  defrauded.  And 
after  hearing  all  the  particulars,  she  offered  him  her  for 
tune,  and  promised  to  assume  the  remainder,  three  thousand 


372  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

dollars,  if   he  would    interest    himself   in    procuring    a    pardon 
for    Mark. 

s<  I  declare,  I  never  was  so  touched  in  my  life,"  Mr.  Cum- 
mings  said  to  his  lawyer.  "  I  don't  know  but  she  might  have 
convinced  me  that  he  was  a  positive  hero,  if  she  had  tried. 
And,  Thorpe,  she  absolutely  means  to  marry  him.  She  is  sure 
she  can  save  him.  I  don't  know  but  we  were  pretty  hard  on 
him.  I  meant  it  to  teach  others  a  lesson  as  well.  There's  too 
much  of  this  speculating,  and  making  haste  to  be  rich.  If  you . 
can  do  anything  for  him  —  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  take  the  money?"  the  lawyer  asked,  with 
a  curious  expression. 

"  D.o  you  think  me  a  Jew  usurer,  Thorpe?  The  money? 
Why,  I'd  as  soon  take  a  pound  of  her  flesh  !  No,  if  she  can 
make  a  good  man  of  him,  she'll  be  a  missionary,  the  like  of 
which  you  won't  see  more  than  once  in  your  lifetime.  She's 
nearer  an  angel  than  many  of  them  will  be  in  heaven." 

One  day  Mark  Bradley  cast  off  his  prison  clothes,  and  walked 
tremblingly  through  the  long  corridor  to  the  reception-room. 
Why  Mr.  Cummings  should  interest  himself  in  his  behalf  was  a 
great  mystery.  He  was  to  meet  him  now,  and  his  lip  twitched 
nervously,  his  face  flushed  with  shame,  that  he  coiild  have 
wronged  so  noble  a  man. 

The  figure  that  turned  upon  him  was  not  Mr.  Cummings's. 
With  the  first  glance  he  staggered  back  to  the  door-post,  his 
whole  frame  \veak  at  the  very  sight.  She  came  nearer  —  Janet 
Raeburn. 

"  Don't,"  he  exclaimed,  brokenly ;  "  go  away,  Janet.  The  one 
thing  I  prayed  most  fervently  for  was  that  you  should  forget  me." 

"  Mark,"  she  answered,  "  in  your  prosperity  you  didn't  deser* 
me." 


HOW     ONE     MAN     WAS     SAVED.  3/3 

"  Prosperity!  "  He  made  a  bitter  gesture.  "  Oh,  that  wild, 
mad  dream  !  I  can  never  forgive  myself.  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
a  thief,  Heaven  knows  !  but  it  looked  so  fair.  I  thought  I  could 
replace  the  money  long  before  it  was  needed.  Other  men  have 
done  such  things.  I  was  blind  and  dumb.  I  said,  like  the  fool, 
'There  is  no  God;  '  and  he  found  me  out;  brought  me  face  to 
face  with  himself.  O  Janet,  it  was  terrible  at  first !  The 
blackness  of  darkness  —  the  very  gates  of  hell !  And  somehow 
through  it  all  I  came  to  your  faith  —  the  old  belief  we  used  to 
talk  about." 

"  Oh  !  "  and,  with  a  cry,  she  came  to  him,  and  laid  her  head 
upon  his  broad  chest. 

"  Janet,  you  are  in  a  dream.  For  all  the  pardon,  I  shall  be 
a  marked  man.  No  one  will  have  faith  in  me.  Go  away, 
child,  and  find  happiness  in  some  brighter  life." 

"  I  have  faith  in  you.  I  love  you  with  a  tenderness  beyond 
that  of  the  old  days.  I  went  tof  Mr.  Cummings.  He  thinks  it 
right  that  I  should  marry  you  —  if  you  want  me,"  and  her 
voice  sank  into  a  sob. 

"  God  only  knows  Jww  I  want  you.  But  it  is  selfish  and  un 
just." 

"You  can  justify  my  faith  in  you,  and  can  reward  my  love. 
Will  you  do  it,  Mark?  " 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  humbly,  making  a  great  struggle  with  him 
self. 

Far  away  at  the  West  there  is  a  happy  home,  made  the  more 
glad  by  children's  voices.  But  of  all  the  things  fortune  has  sent 
this  sad-eyed  man,  who  is  living  a  useful  and  noble  life,  there  is 
cne  gift  for  which  he  offers  a  perpetual  thanksgiving  —  the  love 
of  his  wife-  -  Janet  Raeburn. 

And  thus  \vas  Mark  Bradley' s  salvation  worked  out. 


A  BIRTHDAY 


A  BIRTHDAY. 

WILLIAM    ROUNSEVILLE  ALGER. 

in   this  world,  though  deep  delu 
sions  mask  it, 
Forth  underneath  the  sun  of  truth  to 

bask  get ; 
And,  freshly  still  to  have  your  mental 

flask  wet, 

Seek  nectared  meanings  in  each  outward  casket. 
In  sport  unbent  or  closely  at  your  task,  yet, 
Whenever  comes  an  interruption,  ask  it, 
"  Art  thou  with  a  secret  sign  divinely  sent  me? 
Then  show  me  clear  the  clue  of  guidance  lent  thee, 
While  I  conspire,  whatever  Fate's  intent  be, 
To  say  with  all,  '  This,  this  for  ever  meant  we  ! '  ' 
Live  thus;  for  you,  when  taxing  years  shall  spent  flee, 
Possess  an  endless  lease  of  being,  rent  free. 


377 


OUR  FUTURE  DRAMATISTS. 


37V 


OUR  FUTURE  DRAMATISTS, 

BY    JAMES    PARTON. 

OLTAIRE  used  to  say  that  the  stage  was 
only  capable  of  about  thirty  good  comic 
effects.  He  was  the  wittiest  man  of 
his  time,  perhaps  the  wittiest  man  of 
any  time ;  but  he  could  not  write  a 
good  comedy.  He  "tried  many  times, 
and  never  quite  failed  ;  but  he  never  came  near  a  genu 
ine  success,  and  though  some  of  his  tragedies  keep  the 
stage,  his  comedies  are  never  heard  of.  As  it  is  natural  for 
us  to  underrate  what  we  cannot  do,  his  assertion  that  there 
are  only  thirty  ways  of  making  an  audience  laugh  may  have 
been  merely  an  expression  of  his  own  disappointment. 

But  in  truth  the  stage  is  capable  of  only  a  very  small  num 
ber  of  good  effects,  whether  serious,  comic,  or  romantic,  and 
this  is  one  of  the  chief  reasons  why  it  is  so  hard  to  write  a 
good  acting  play.  The  novelist  has  the  whole  scene  of  hu 
man  life  at  his  command,  and  he  can  avail  himself  of  every 
passion  of  the  human  heart.  The  dramatist  is  limited  in 
every  way.  His  subject  may  include  the  reign  of  a  king,  the 
overthrow  of  a  dynasty,  or  the  lifetime  of  a  hero,  but  he  must 
dismiss  his  audience  soon  after  eleven  o'clock,  and  he  can 

only  interest    them   by  a  few   strong   effects   and   situations. 

381 


382  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

He  cannot  explain,  or  argue,  or  minutely  delineate.  In  front 
of  the  stage  sits  a  hot,  uncomfortable,  impatient  audience, 
who  will  tolerate  the  unnatural,  the  violent,  the  absurd,  but 
will  not  bear  for  two  consecutive  minutes  the  dull  or  the 
slow.  They  will  roar  with  laughter  if  a  gentleman  sits  down 
upon  a  pin,  or  if  he  is  hit  in  the  face  with  a  handful  of  flour, 
but  they  cannot  catch  the  finer  allusions  of  wit  and  humor. 
Everything  on  the  stage  must  be  strong,  distinct,  short,  and 
rapid.  There  must  be  in  the  humor  something  of  the  bois 
terous,  in  the  wit  plenty  of  sharp  epigram,  in  the  serious 
scenes  fire  and  passion  ;  and,  above  all,  everything  has  to  be 
given  with  the  extreme  of  possible  brevity.  The  play  of 
"  Macbeth  "  includes  part  of  the  reign  of  three  kings,  two 
revolutions,  a  wide-spread  conspiracy,  the  successful  invasion 
of  a  kingdom,  and  a  domestic  tragedy,  and  yet  the  specta 
tors  are  taking  their  oysters  at  a  quarter  past  eleven.  In 
three  hours  it  is  all  over. 

I  discovered  the  difference  between  writing  for  the  eye  and 
writing  for  the  car  when  first  I  attempted  to  lecture.  I 
found  that  a  lecture  had  to  be  something  essentially  different 
from  an  essay — had  to  be  twenty  essays  packed  into  one, 
with  all  the  needless  words  omitted.  If  you  tell  a  story  to 
an  audience,  you  must  leave  out  everything  but  the  point. 
If  you  desire  to  utter  a  conviction,  you  must  state  it  in  half  a 
minute,  and  illustrate  it  in  five  minutes.  A  reader  has  the 
blessed  privilege  of  skipping  a  dull  page,  but  to  an  audience 
every  word  has  to  be  spoken  at  a  certain  pace,  and  if  they  are 
not  interested,  you  lose  them,  and  find  it  hard  to  get  them 
back  again.  If  a  good  essay  may  be  compared  to  an  acre  of 
prairie,  bright  with  emerald  and  flowers,  an  effective  speech 
is  an  acre  composed  entirely  of  mountain  tops.  You  must 


OUR     FUTURE     DRAMATISTS.  383 

hide  the  dull  and  ponderous  mountains,  and  exhibit  only  the 
sharp  and  glittering  peaks. 

All  actors  know  this  from  nightly  feeling  an  audience  ;  and 
this  is  the  reason  why  the  best  plays  are  written  by  actors. 
They  know  by  painful  experience  what  an  uneasy,  hard-to- 
hold  creature  an  audience  is,  and  they  soon  learn  the  few  sure 
effects.  Shakspere  would  never  have  been  the  dramatist  he 
was  if  he  had  not  been  actor,  manager,  and  proprietor,  as 
well  as  spectator;  for  the  qualities  which  make  a  play  effect 
ive  are  also  the  qualities  which,  other  things  being  equal, 
make  it  excellent.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  grave-digger  in 
<;  Hamlet  "  was  not  put  into  the  play  for  the  purpose  of  get 
ting  a  favorite  comic  actor  into  the  cast ;  but  such  was  the 
mastery  of  Shakspere  over  the  resources  of  his  art  that  he 
converted  this  manager's  necessity  into  a  dramatist's  tri 
umph.  The  only  dramatist  of  modern  times  worthy  to  be 
named  with  Shakspere  is  Moliere,  and  we  know  that  he 
made  a  laughing  part  in  one  of  his  comedies  solely  because 
an  actress  in  his  company  had  a  particularly  musical  and 
ringing  stage-laugh. 

And  here  we  have  the  reason  why  so  many  American  at 
tempts  to  produce  acting  plays  have  not  succeeded.  The 
authors  have  not  studied  the  stage.  They  have  not  closely 
observed  stage  effects  and  discovered  what  can  and  what 
cannot  be  represented  so  as  to  hold  and  impress  an  audi 
ence. 

There  is  just  one  thing  which  all  good  acting  plays  have  in 
common,  from  the  sublimest  creations  of  Shakspere  and 
Schiller  to  the  emptiest  farces  of  Buckstone  or  Reynolds.  A 
good  acting  play  gives  the  actors  a  chance  to  display  tJicir  ta 
lents.  There  is  not  a  weaker  play  upon  the  stage  than  the 


384 


PAPYRUS   LEAVES. 


"  Hunchback";  but  Sheridan  Knowles  was  an  actor,  and  he 
has  afforded  an  opportunity  to  every  person  that  appears  in 
it  to  produce  a  certain  effect.  Observe  the  "  Shaughraun  " 
of  Mr.  Boucicault.  Every  part  in  the  play  gives  the  per 
former  some  opportunity  to  use  and  show  his  powers.  The 
golden  rule,  therefore,  for  him  who  would  write  good  acting 
plays  is  this :  Give  the  actors  a  chance  to  do  what  they  can 
do  best. 

The  numerous  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  are  now 
cherishing  the  very  worthy  ambition  of  supplying  the  Ameri 
can  stage  with  plays  should  pass  days  and  nights  in  seeing 
and  studying  dramas  that  have  run  a  hundred  nights,  nor  yet 
omit  to  consider  carefully  plays  that  have  failed.  It  would 
not  be  a  bad  introduction  to  the  career  of  a  dramatist  to  go 
upon  the  stage  for  a  year  or  two,  and  face  the  good-natured,, 
impatient,  restless,  terrible  monster  which  has  to  be  held 
attentive  and  entertained— an  audience.  This  experience,  if 
accompanied  by  a  profound  study  of  subjects  in  history  and 
in  life,  might  give  us  the  dramatist  for  whom  "  the  stage 
waits." 


THE   GERALDINE. 


185 


THE  GERALDINE. 


BY   R.    SHELTON    MACKENZIE,  D.C.L. 

I. 

MOURNFUL  wail,  all  sad  and  low,  like 

the  murmur  which  the  breeze 
On  an  autumnal  eve  might  make  among 

the  sere-leaved  trees; 
Then    a    rapt    silence,    soul-subdued  ;    a 

listening  silence  there, 
With  earnest,   supplicating  eyes,  and   hand-clasped    hush  of 

prayer. 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  which  warriors 

shed, 
"When  the  Chief  who  led  them  on  to  fame,  lies  almost  of  tht 

dead  ; 
AVhen    the    eagle   eye   is   dim   and  dull,  and  the  eagle   spirit 

cold  ; 

When  fitfully  and  feebly  throbs  the  heart  which  was  so  bold. 
Thou   might'st  have    fancied  grief   like  this,   if  ever  it  were 

thine, 

To  hear  a  minstrel  sing  the  deeds  of  the  valiant  Geraldine. 

387 


388  PAPYRUS     LEA YES. 

II. 

Where    is    that    gallant    name    unknown  ?      Wherever    valor 

shone, 
Wherever   mightiest   chiefs  were    named,  the   Geraldine  was 

one  ; 

Wherever  Erin's  banner  waved,  the  Geraldine  was  there, 
Winning  honor  from  his  prince's  praise   and  favor  from   the. 

fair. 

But  now  his  course  is  closing,  for  his  final  hour  has  come, 
And,  like  a  peaceful  peasant,  'tis  his  hap  to  die  at  home. 
The  priest  hath  been  to  shrive  him,  and  the  leech  hath  been- 

to  tend, 
And  the   old  man,  with  a  Christian   heart,  prepared  to  meet 

his  end. 

"  It  is  God's  will,  the  abbot  says,  that,  unlike  to  all  my  line, 
I    should    die    not    on    the    battle-field,"    said     the    gallant 

Geraldine. 

III. 

Within    his  tent    the   warrior  lay ;    by   his   side   his   childrea 

three : 
There  "was   Thomas,  with    the  haughty  brow,  the   Lord  of 

Offaly  ; 
There  was  gentle  Ina,  wedded  to  proud   Desmond's  gallant 

son  ; 
There  was  Richard,  he  the  youngest-born  and  best  beloved 

one. 

Lord  Thomas  near  his  father  stood  ;   fair  Ina  wept  apace  ; 
Young  Richard  by  the  couch  knelt  down,  and  hid   his  palev 

sad  face. 


THE      GERALDINE.  389 

He  would  not  that  the   common  eye  should  gaze  upon  his 

woe, 
JSTor  that  how  very  much  he  mourned,  his  dying  sire  should 

know  ; 
But  the  old  man  said,  "  My  youngest-born,  the  deepest  grief 

is  thine  "; 
And    then    the    pent-up    tears    rained    fast   on    the    face    of 

Geraldine. 

IV. 

""  Lead    out    my    steed — the    Arab    barb,   which,    lately,    in 

Almaine, 

I  won,  in  single  combat,  from  a  Moorish  lord  of  Spain— 
And   bring  my  falchion   hither,    with   its   waved    Damascene 

blade, 

In  temper  true  and  sharpness  keen  as  ever  armorer  made. 
Thou  seest,  my  son,  this   falchion    keen,  that   war-horse  paw 

the  plain  ; 
Thou  nearest  thy  father's  voice,  which  none  may  ever  hear 

again  ; 

Thou  art  destined  for  the  altar,  for  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
But   if  thy  spirit   earthward   tend,  take   thou   the  steed  and 

sword. 
Ill  doth  it  hap,  when   human  thoughts  do  clash  with  thoughts 

divine — 
Steel  armor,  better  than  the  stole,  befits  a  Geraldine!  " 

V. 

"  My  father,  thou  hast  truly  said.      This  soaring  spirit  swells 
Beyond  that  dreary  living  tomb — yon  dark  monastic  cells. 


390  PAPYRUS     LEAVES. 

The  cold  in  heart  and  weak  in  hand  may  seek  their  pious, 
gloom, 

And  mourn,  too  late,  the  hapless  vow  which  cost  them  such 
a  doom  ; 

Give  me  the  flashing  falchion  and  the  fiery  steed  of  war — 

The  shout,  the  blow,  the  onset  quick,  where  serried  thou 
sands  are. 

Thine  eldest-born  may  claim  and  take  thy  lordship  and  thy 
land  ; 

I  ask  no  more  than  that  bold  steed,  this  good  sword  in  my- 
hand, 

To  win  the  fame  that  warriors  win,  and  haply  to  entwine, 

In  other  lands,  some  honors  new,  round  the  name  of" 
Geraldine." 

VI. 

Flashed  then  into  the  chieftain's  eyes  the  light  of  other  days, 
And  the   pressure  of  his  feeble  hand  spoke  more  than  words. 

of  praise : 

"  So  let  it  be,  my  youngest-born  !     Thine  be  a  warrior's  life  ; 
And  may  God  safely  speed  thee  through  thy  coming  deeds. 

of  strife  ! 
Take  knighthood  from   thy  father's  sword  before  his  course 

be  run, 

Be  valiant,  fortunate,  and  true  ;  acquit  thee  as  my  son  !— 
My  harper  here  ?     Ere   life   depart,  strike  me  some  warlike 

strain — 
Some  song  of  my  own  battle-fields  I  would  hear  once  more- 

again  ; 

Unfurl  the  silken  Sunburst  in  the  noontide's  golden  shine  : 
In  death,  as  in  the  pride  of  life,  let  it  wave  o'er  Geraldine ! "' 


THE      GERALDINE.  391 

VII. 

The    banner   fluttered    in    the    breeze  ;     the    harper's    strain 

went  on — 

A  song  it  was  of  mighty  deeds  by  the  dying  chieftain  done. 
At  first  he  listen'd  calmly — the  strain  grew  bold  and  strong — 
Like   things    of    life  within    his    heart,    did    memory's    quick 

thoughts  throng. 
Louder  and   stronger  swelled   the   strain,  like  a  river  in  its 

course  ; 
From  his  couch  the  chieftain  started — "  To  horse  !"  he  cried, 

"  to  horse  !" 
And  .proudly,    like   a   warrior,  waved    his    sword    above  his 

head  ; 
One  onward  step,  one  gurgling  gasp,  and  the  chief  is  of  the 

dead  ! 

The  harper  changed   his   strain  to   grief:  the   coronach  was 

thine, 
Who    died,    as   thou    hadst  lived,    a  Man,   O    white-haired 

Geraldine ! 


THE  RATIONALE  OF  'THE  RAVEN/ 


THE  RATIONALE  OF  "THE  RAVEN" 

WILLIAM    FEARING    GILL. 

the  constituency  so  graphically  described  by~ 
Powell  in  his  "  Living  Authors  "  the  genius 
of  Poe  was  forced  to  address  itself  or  remain 
silent  for  ever.  That  he  met  its  cold,  hard, 
unsympathetic  reception  with  the  fierce  dis 
dain  that  found  its  outlet  in  his  scathing  criticisms  of  the 
typical  men  of  the  time  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  nor  is  it 
less  surprising  that  he  should  shrink  from  laying  bare  the 
secrets  of  his  soul  to  those  so  incapable  of  comprehending 
their  depths. 

When,  therefore,  in  his  silent  vigils,  enthralled  by  the 
imaginative  ecstasy  which  often  possessed  and  overpowered 
him,  he  conceived  and  wrought  out  this  marvellous  inspira 
tion,  what  wonder  is  it  that  his  delicate  sensibility  should 
prompt  him  to  conceal  from  the  rude  gnze  of  his  material 
audience  the  secret  springs  of  his  inner  consciousness,  by 
printing  his  weird  fancies  over  an  assumed  name,  and  hedg 
ing  its  origin  about  with  the  impenetrable  veil  of  fiction  ? 

Had  "The  Raven"  been,  as  he  described  it  in  his  paper, 
"The  Philosophy  of  Composition,"  a  product  of  art  simply, 
and  not  of  inspiration,  his  ambition  for  fame  would  infallibly 
have  led  him  not  only  to  claim  the  poem  openly  from  the 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  395 

outset,  but  to  have  preluded  it  with  the  descriptive  analysis,, 
using  the  verse  as  an  illustration  of  the  alleged  philosophy 
of  the  composition.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  most  suggest 
ive  fact  that  "  The  Raven  "  was  the  only  important  com 
position  of  Poe's  ever  printed  by  him  over  a  noni- de-plume. 
To  his  intimates  Poe  frequently  spoke  of  the  exalted 
state,  which  he  defined  as  ecstasy,  in  which  he  wrote 
his  poems  of  imagination.  From  one  of  his  nearest 
friends,  who  knew  him  in  prosperity  and  adversity,  in  sick 
ness  and  health,  I  learn  that  none  of  Poe's  romances  were 
more  fictitious  than  his  romances  about  himself  and  his  writ 
ings,  and  his  accepted  analysis  of  "  The  Raven  "  is  confessedly 
as  thorough  a  specimen  of  plausible  fabrication  as  is  his 
familiar  story  of  "  The  Facts  in  the  Case  of  Monsieur  de 
Valdemar."  Like  all  persons  of  a  morbidly  sensitive  tem 
perament,  he  resented  the  slightest  approach  from  the  world 
at  large,  and  from  practical  people  in  particular,  to  the  inner 
citadel  of  his  soul,  and  he  knew  well  how  to  use  his  invincible 
weapons  of  defence. 

Many  admirers  of  the  poet's  genius  will  doubtless  prefer 
that  the  origin  of  the  inspiration  of  "The  Raven  "  shall  re 
main  enshrouded  in  the  chiaro-oscuro  of  the  mystic  sugges- 
tiveness  of  the  verse. 

But  in  a  much  wider  circle  there  unquestionably  exists  a 
pardonable  desire  to  learn  the  true  source  of  this  wonderful 
poem,  that,  written  in  any  age,  in  any  language,  would  have 
given  to  its  author  a  world-wide  fame. 

Basing  the  opinions  which  we  venture  to  advance  here 
upon  the  result  of  a  process  of  psychological  introversion, 
which  conclusion  is  confirmed  by  several  of  Poe's  most  in- 


396  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

timate  acquaintances  now  living,  strengthened  by  a  chain 
of  conclusive  circumstantial  evidence,  we  have  arrived  at  a 
•theory  of  the  origin  of  the  poem  that  has  received  the  ap 
proval  of  Mr.  George  R.  Graham  and  others  of  Poe's  friends. 

A  letter  received  from  Mr.  Graham  May  I,  1877,  in  this 
connection  will  be  read  with  interest,  from  the  writer's  near 
and  friendly  intimacy  with  the  poet : 

«'  W.  F.  GILL,  ESQ  : 

"  DEAR  SIR-  From  my  near  acquaintance  with  Edgar  A.  Poe  at  the  time 
'The  Raven'  was  written  I  have  no  doubt  that  your  theory  as  to  the  source 
of  the  inspiration  of  The  Raven  '  is  in  the  main  correct.  It  was  his  foible  to 
mislead  and  mystify  his  readers. 

"  His  published  analysis  of  '  The  R.iven  '  is  a  good  specimen  of  his  capa 
bility  in  this  kind  of  fiction. 

"  Your  impression  that  the  poet  was  accessible  to  fear  is  entirely  correct. 
He  was  singularly  sensitive  to  outside  influences,  more  so  than  most  imagi 
native  men. 

"  His  organization,  as  I  have  always  said,  was  extremely  delicate  and  fine. 
Hence  his  impressibility  and  subjection  at  times  to  influences  which  would 
not  have  a  feather's  weight  with  ordinary  men. 

"Even  when  absorbed  in  writing  I  noticed  that  a  sudden  breath  of  air,  a 
noise  unheard  by  others  around  him.  would  staitle  him. 

"He  disliked  the  dark,  and  was  rarely  out  at  night  when  I  knew  him.  On 
one  occasion  he  said  to  me:  '  I  believe  that  demons  take  advantage  of  the 
night  to  mislead  the  unwary — although  you  know,'  he  added,  '  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  them.' 

"The  mysteries  of  his  inner  life  were  never  revealed  to  any  one,  but  his 
intimates  well  understood  that  to  mystify  his  hearer  was  a  strong  element  of 
his  mind. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"GEO.  R.  GRAHAM. 

"  NEW  YORK,  May  i,  1877." 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  Poe's  reading  of  "  The  Raven  " 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  397 

in  private  was  totally  at  variance  with  the  reading  of  it  as  a 
mere  composition. 

Had  it  been  constructed  as  described  by  him  in  his  essay 
on  composition,  his  reading  would,  unquestionably,  have  been 
in  accordance  with  this  description,  for  Foe  was  too  good  an 
elocutionist  to  fail  to  adequately  voice  his  conceptions. 

As  a  mere  composition,  it  is  impossible  to  give  to  the 
reading  of  the  poem  a  tithe  of  the  vraiscmblance  which  at 
taches  to  it,  when  rendered  according  to  the  theory  of  its 
foundation  upon  an  actual  experience  of  the  poet. 

But  for  Poe's  evident  intent  to  conceal  his  authorship  of 
the  poem  there  would  be  but  little  expectation  of  finding 
any  clue  to  the  source  of  its  inspiration.  But  the  fact  of  the 
deliberate  and  exceptional  concealment  evidences  conclusively 
enough  that  there  was,  in  the  poet's  own  experience,  some 
basis  of  fact  whereon  his  imaginative  structure  was  erected. 

That  some  of  the  most  exquisite  imaginative  fabrics  ever 
constructed  have  been  wrought  from  t.he  suggestions  af 
forded  by  some  special  experience,  or  by  a  chance  incident 
or  circumstance,  there  are  many  familiar  examples  to  de 
monstrate. 

Beethoven's  beautiful  "  Moonlight  Sonata  "  was  suggested 
by  a  romantic  incident  during  the  composer's  sojourn  at 
Bonn.  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe's  "  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Re 
public  "  was  a  special  inspiration  which  came  to  her  after 
witnessing  a  romantic  moonlight  march  of  the  troops  during 
the  war  of  the  American  rebellion. 

In  seeking  for  the  clue  to  "  The  Raven  "  we  find,  in  recall 
ing  the  situation  of  the  poet  at  this  time,  that  he  was  living 
at  Bloomingdale,  New  York. 


398  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

While  at  this  place,  and  previous  to  the  appearance  of 
"The  Raven,"  his  child-wife,  Virginia,  for  whom  he  had 
come  to  feel  a  deeper  affection  than  that  of  fraternal  love., 
was  prostrated  by  a  serious  illness,  which  had  previously 
afflicted  her,  and  for  weeks  her  life  hung  by  a  thread.  Ani 
mation  was  at  times,  indeed,  seemingly  suspended,  and  on 
one  dreary  December  night  the  poet  was  agonized  to  find 
her  cold  and  breathless,  apparently  dead. 

In  his  lonely,  silent  vigils,  in  what  was,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  the  presence  of  death,  many  strange  imageries  and 
much  bitter  self-accusation  naturally  possessed  him.  Al 
though  latterly  devoted  to  his  wife,  he  had  caused  her  pain 
in  the  first  years  of  his  married  life  by  his  romantic  admira 
tion  of  other  women  ;  *  and  an  exaggerated  sense  of  wrong 
done  to  his  lost  loved  one,  through  his  neglect,  not  unnatu 
rally  came  to  him  at  this  time,  exciting  the  most  irrational 
remorse,  and  completely  surcharging  his  mind  with  the  im 
aginative  reveries  "  that  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  be 
fore."  In  picturing  to  himself  his  wife  as  departed,  his 
remorse  also  forbade  him  any  hope  of  meeting  her  in  the 
distant  Aidenn  of  the  future. 

With  the  added  factor  of  some  fugitive  bird,  or  domes 
tic  pet  (the  Poes  always  kept  them),  breaking  in  upon  his 
wild  reveries  with  some  slight  interruption  which  the  poet's 
distorted  fancy  exaggerated  into  some  supernatural  visi 
tant,  an  adequate  basis  for  his  masterpiece  is  found. 

*  Mrs.  Weiss  states  that  he  had  frequently  had  sentimental  afachments 
for  intellectual  women,  sometimes  nothing  more  than  a  distant  adoration — 
the  poet  never  speaking  to  the  lady — "  as  a  devotee  might  worship  the  Ma 
donna." 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  399 

That  this  suggestion  of  the  possible  origin  of  "  The  Ra 
ven  "  is  at  least  plausible,  an  analysis  of  the  construction  of 
the  poem,  coupled  with  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  the 
poet,  will  perhaps  evidence. 

Like  many  persons  of  an  imaginative,  nervous  tempera 
ment,  Poe  was  susceptible,  in  certain  moods,  to  a  positive 
sense  of  the  supernatural.  This  sense  he  has  defined  in  his 
letters,  describing  visions  suggesting  singular  fancies. 

In  his  normal  state,  he  did  not  possess  the  element  of 
fear ;  but  when  his  mind  was  abnormally  overwrought  to 
the  extent  that  it  frequently  was,  he  was  susceptible  to 
impressions  that  at  other  times  would  have  affected  him 
very  differently. 

We  find  this  dread  of  the  supernatural  barely  hinted  at 
in  the  first  verse,  wherein  his  weariness  and  loneliness  are 
principally  depicted. 

The  second  verse  simply  describes  his  isolation  and  his 
.sorrow  for  his  lost  love.  The  train  of  thought,  inspired  by 
his  breathing  his  hopeless  sorrow,  is  quickly  followed  by  the 
self-accusation  of  his  remorse  for  his  past  ;  and  the  vision  of 
an  accusing  fate  dawns  upon  him,  as  he  recalls  the  strange 
sharp  sound  that  interrupted  his  loneliness. 

He  is,  in  fact,  beside  himself  with  fear,  and,  as  a  person 
in  such  a  state  would  be  likely  to  do,  he  endeavors  to  allay 
his  imaginative  terrors  by  ascribing  them  to  some  common 
place  cause  : 

"  'Tis  some  visitor  en'reating  entrartce  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  : 
This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

He  nerves  himself  up  to  the  effort   required   to  throw  off 


400  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

his  supernatural  terror,  and  opens  the  door  to  discover  the 
cause  of  the  noise.  He  finds  nothing  but  the  darkness. 
His  fears,  not  having  been  dispelled,  as  they  would  have 
been  had  he,  at  this  time,  discovered  some  practical  cause 
for  the  interruption,  are,  naturally,  confirmed,  and  new  visions 
are  inspired,  and  the  supposed  mysterious  visitant  takes  the 
haunting  form  of  the  spirit  of  his  lost  one. 

In  an  ecstasy  of  dread  and  excitement,  he  returns  to  his 
lonely  watch,  only  to  be  again  interrupted  by  a  similar  noise 
at  the  window. 

To  his  delight  and  surprise,  his  mysterious  visitor  takes 
the  welcome  form  of  a  truant  bird,  or  some  other  pet,  that 
had  escaped  and  returned  after  the  house  was  closed  for  the 
night. 

His  supernatural  dread  immediately  gives  place  to  a  sense 
of  relief  at  the  material  presence  of  his  dumb  visitor,  and, 
pacified  for  the  moment,  his  imaginative  fears  take  flight,  and 
he  sits  down  and  holds  a  merry  colloquy  with  his  guest,  glad 
of  any  opportunity  of  occupying  himself  and  taking  his  mind 
off  from  the  morbid  imaginings  that  had  possessed  it.  But 
under  all  this  would  be  blithesome  colloquy  with  his  visitor,. 
his  fancy  will  revert  to  the  hopeless  dread  that  has  over 
powered  him,  and,  like  the  haunted  criminal  in  MM.  Erck- 
mann  and  Chatrian's  drama  of  "The  Bells,"  his  imagination 
coins  but  one  word  in  answer  to  his  every  query  ,  and  as 
Matthias  Kant,  in  the  play,  is  pursued  everywhere  by  the 
weird  jingle  of  the  bells,  so  the  mocking  "Nevermore!" 
seemed  to  hover  in  the  air,  sounding  the  knell  of  his  lost 
hopes. 

The  refrain  is   not,  however,  to  my  mind,  invested   with. 


PAPYRUS       LEAVES.  4-OI 

any  supernatural  suggestiveness  in  the  earlier  portions  cf  the 
poem.  Were  it  so,  the  poet  would  have  indicated  it  in  the 
verse.  On  the  contrary,  he  writes: 

"  Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy,  bore," 

clearly  indicating  that  his  impression  was  simply  one  of  sur 
prise,  not,  at  first,  of  fear. 

This  idea  is  confirmed  in  the  opening  line  of  the  twelfth 
stanza  of  the  poem  : 

"  But  the  raven  Etill  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling" 

which  clearly  evidences  that,  up  to  this  point,  the  impression 
produced  by  the  appearance  of  the  bird,  had  not  excited  any 
other  emotions  than  the  very  natural  effects  of  surprise  and 
amusement.  But  immediately  after  this,  the  poet  permits 
himself  to  do  a  very  hazardous  thing  for  his  peace  of  mind, 
for  he  betook  himself  "  to  linking  fancy  unto  fancy,''  until,  at 
the  end  of  the  next  stanza,  we  find  him  just  where  he  was  at 
the  beginning,  the  lighter  train  of  thought  suggested  by  the 
entrance  of  his  visitor,  having  merged  itself  in  the  reminis 
cences  of  his  lost  Lenore,  with  whom,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
course  of  the  interview,  it  occurs  to  him  to  connec.t  the  bird. 

Nothing,  it  seems  to  us,  is  at  once  so  natural  and  inge 
nious  as  the  manner  of  the  leading  up,  in  the  verse,  to  this 
necessary  connection  of  the  bird  with  the  subject  of  the  poet's 
imageries. 

The  careless,  blithesome  opening  line  of  the  twelfth  stan 
za,  already  quoted,  is  in  such  bold  contrast  to  the  sad  closing 
line  of  the  next  stanza,  that  it  seems  inexplicable  that  these 


402  PAPYRUS      LEAVES. 

opposing  ideas  could  have  been  so  congruously  reconciled  by 
so  simple  a  device  as  the  deft  placing  of  the  "  cushioned  seat  '^ 
with  its  "  violet  velvet  lining." 

From  this  point,  the  atmosphere  of  the  scene  changes  and 
becomes  merged  in  the  supernatural,  the  changes  of  the  at 
mosphere  being  clearly  indicated  by  the  lines : 

"  Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor." 

The  bird,  no  longer  a  bird  to  the  distorted  vision  of  the 
poet,  assumes  to  his  gaze  the  shape,  first,  of  an  angel,  then  of 
an  avenging  demon. 

In  one  moment  of  rhapsody,  he  grasps  with  frantic  joy  at 
the  fitful  hope  of  "  Nepenthe  "  for  his  remorse,  only  to  be 
cast  down  to  the  depths  of  despair  by  the  reaction  which  suc 
ceeds  this  still-born  hope. 

Invested  by  the  poet's  fancy  with  the  spirit  of  prophecy, 
the  bird  from  that  moment  assumes  to  him  the  form  of  a 
Nemesis,  and  replies  to  his  plaints  with  the  oracular  solemni 
ty  of  a  remorseless  fate.  There  are  no  bounds  to  the  men 
tal  anguish  depicted  in  the  stanza  beginning: 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting," 

and  no  limit  to  the  abject  despair  portrayed  in  the  following, 
the  closing,  stanza. 

In  voicing  his  imaginary  conception  inverse,  it  is  not  singu 
lar  that  Poe  should  have  selected  the  raven  as  typical  of  his. 
fateful  visitor;  for  the  raven  has  for  ages  past  been  renowned 
as  the  symbol  of  ill-omen,  and  for  the  purposes  of  the  narra 
tion  of  the  story,  a  talking  bird  was  indispensable.  What 
other  than  the  raven  could  have  been  effectively  employed  ? 


PAPYRUS      LEAVES.  405 

The  refrain  "  Nevermore  !  "  was  not  less  obviously  selected 
as  suggestive,  both  in  sense  and  sound,  of  the  poet's  fateful 
fancy. 

It  will,  I  think,  be  conceded  that  the  spontaneity  which 
is  an  all-pervading  characteristic  of  such  of  the  poems  as  are 
known  to  have  been  inspired  by  some  actual  person,  such  as 
"  To  Helen,"  "  Annabel  Lee,"  and  "For  Annie,"  exists  not 
less  palpably  in  "  The  Raven."  Like  these  others,  it  sings 
itself,  to  a  strange  melody,  it  is  true,  but  not  less  naturally  or 
truly,  and  with  an  exalted  beauty  of  rhythm  that  seems  bora 
of  a  special  inspiration. 


1111  linTii  TmiiTiTY  FACILITY 

AA      000279647    2 


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